Different Worlds
by Lucretia Skelington
Summary: They meet, finally! A comparison of Clarisse and Joseph before they met. Based on the movie. COMPLETE Rated to be safe. CLARISSEJOSEPH
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: Meg Cabot owns the Princess Diaries books, Disney has claim to the movies. No infringement on either party is intended. This is purely for the enjoyment of PD fans and to help me practice my writing skills.

This is a WIP and updates might be slow in coming, so please be patient. Reviews will undoubtedly spur me on, as will, I hope, posting the first part of the story. This is based on the movie and Clarisse had only the one son. Since I am not familiar with the books and characters in them, I've had to make up histories of Clarisse and Joseph (it is fiction, you know) and if it does not suit your ideas of their past, simply shake your head knowingly and chalk it up to someone without the vision you possess.

I apologize in advance for any typos...no matter how many times I edit, a mistake (or too)still slips by. I've not quite learned all the tricks formats, so be tolerant if spacing is not ideal.

Now, be a dear and post a review after reading this.

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Different Beginnings

Chapter 1

Schooled at the side of her mother, a marchioness, and her grandmothers, a duchess and countess, Lady Clarisse knew how to comport herself as befitted her station in life. She was a sweet-natured and intelligent child who traveled extensively, visiting friends of her parents and grandparents or other members of the family, all of whom were the upper crust of Europe. Living in a world of wealth, privilege, and titled aristocracy, she knew the ways of polite society well.

For that reason, eight-year-old Clarisse did not gawk at the magnificent palace of the Genovian royal family spread out before her, but smiled happily as she got out of the limousine, glad to have arrived after the three-hour flight from London.

Her mother, the Marchioness of Tyron, and grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Blakewell, were in Genovia at the personal invitation of Queen Matilda to attend an equestrian show. Ranked second in Junior Dressage in England, Clarisse loved horses. Queen Matilda had very fine horse stables and Clarisse looked forward to riding about the meadows and woods that surrounded the palace.

Perhaps Prince Rupert would be home and could go riding with her. Her smile widened at the thought.

Rupert, the only child of King Wilhelm and Queen Matilda and heir to the throne of Genovia, was three years older than she was and Clarisse liked playing with him, even if he was a boy. They saw each other often since her mother and the queen were very close friends, having attended finishing school together in Switzerland.

Clarisse and Rupert played hide and seek in the throne room, laughed at the somber portraits lining the Portrait Hall, shared sweets snitched from the long buffet tables at lavish banquets and, while hiding behind potted palms or peeking through balcony railings, watched elegant ladies and men dance in swirls of color around the Grand Ballroom.

They even shared a kiss on Rupert's eleventh birthday after he lost the bet over a game of rummy. Grinning, he told Clarisse he would marry her and make her queen because she was the only girl who was not afraid to get the better of him.

She replied that being queen sounded like fun- almost as much fun as galloping across country, and promptly challenged him to a horse race.

The heavy, carved doors of the palace opened and Clarisse hurried up the steps, hoping there was enough time to go riding with Rupert before dinner.

* * *

"You're a very lucky boy, Joseph Coraza," the man said, peering down his nose at the scrawny child before him. He hoped the urchin wasn't going to start crying. The boy's grandmother was dead over a month now, his mother gone over six years; surely the child wasn't still blubbering over it. "Most orphans would be put in an orphanage, but your fa-, that is, my employer is paying for you to attend boarding school." 

The child stared at him with eyes identical to that of the Dukeof Thornfield - blue with flecks of green.

"Why?" asked the skinny boy.

_Because your father's mother, the Dowager Duchess of Thornfield, pitched a fit when she found out about her son's "little indiscretion" and insisted you be sent away dealt with_, the lawyer thought. The call from Spanish authorities caused uproar behind the heavy paneled doors of the family's ancestral home.

He spent the past three weeks dealing with authorities in Madrid and Genovia, doling out money hand over fist to the right people to keep it quiet and push the paperwork through quickly. Born in Spain, the boy became a Genovian citizen when adopted by his Genovian grandmother after his mother's disappearance when he was two years of age. The grandmother had returned with the boy to Spain in hopes of finding her daughter's whereabouts, just months before her death. Private inquiries found the boy's mother died of pneumonia on a Paris street corner, five years prior. The grandmother's death made him a ward of the state and the state promptly notified the father listed on the birth certificate to come get the boy.

The Duke was not about to do so.

"Because my employer wishes you to."

The child continued to stare at him. "Why doesn't my father come see me?"

_Because you are the embarrassing result of his forced attentions on a servant and have no place in his world._

The lawyer wasn't without some sympathy for the child, but he had a very real fear of what the Duke and, even more so, the Dowager Duchess would do if this eight-year old problem standing before him did not get taken care of once and for all. He decided to be direct.

"For all intents and purposes, you have no father, Joseph," he said slowly. "You must put the idea from your mind. It is neither your father's wish nor desire to see you or have anything to do with you- ever. Is that clear?"

The boy blinked several times. The man hoped there wasn't going to be a scene.

"Be glad you aren't going to a charity home," the lawyer added sharply, standing. "Stay out of trouble and don't do anything to embarrass him, such as trying to contact him, and you won't have to." …_until the Dowager Duchess dies and the Duke has the power to ignore you and cut off what little support he's giving._

The child frowned, confused.

He threw his coat over his arm and picked up his briefcase, eager to be away from the depressing, third-rate school. At the door, he stopped.

"Look, your mother is dead, your grandmother is dead, and you have no relatives- you have no one. Be thankful you have this much," he said then turned and walked away.

Behind him, Joseph continued to stare, dry-eyed.

* * *

Christmas 

Boughs of freshly cut holly and fir entwined with ribbons of red and gold adorned the entry and continued throughout the marble-floored public rooms into the Grand Ballroom, filling the Palace with the scent of Christmas. In the room's subdued lighting, clusters of tall, white tapers gave a warm glow to the room. Pots of glorious red and white poinsettias filled each corner at varying levels to create a waterfall of color. On a dais in one corner, a stringed sextet played melodies of the season.

A forty-foot tree, cut from His Majesty's forest and delivered by drawn horses, as were all of the royal Genovian christmas trees of centuries past, stood at the far end of the room. Thousands of miniature white lights twinkled, reflecting off hand blown multicolored glass balls made especially for the royal family by Genovian artisans. Behind the tree was a wall of French doors through which the garden, blanketed with snow and lit by two hundred lanterns, appeared to be but a wintry extension of the ballroom.

Tables lined both sides of the room, laden with delicacies of all description. Mounds of shrimp, plates of succulent crab cakes, dishes of chilled caviar, and a wide selection of smoked meats stretched the table's length, leading to platters of dainty sweets. Diminutive cakes, covered with white icing and sugary red bows, trimmed with holly and berries of fondant, or simply sprinkled with flecks of gold, graced three-tiered serving trays.

Wedges of Genovian pears and cheese slices, spiraling outward from the center of antique porcelain dishes, sat next to silver bowls of cherries, strawberries, figs, papaya, guavas, rambutans, and exotic fruits imported from around the world for tonight's festivities. Cut vegetables, from hothouses and warmer climes, covered plates along with an abundance of breads, crackers, and cheeses.

Flutes of pale champagne, the finest French cellars had to offer, filled trays that a small army of waiters served to the wealthy and aristocratic guests of Their Royal Genovian Majesties. Jewels glittered with each lift of the hand, each turn of a head. Ropes of pearls shone in delicate shades of grays and creams and white. Precious gems sparkled at the throats of the ladies; gold and ebony graced the cuffs and studs of the gentlemen.

Conversation hummed among the guests and anticipation was running high. Tonight was a special night; the betrothal of Genovia's crown prince would be announced.

Nineteen year-old Lady Clarisse stood in the center of theGrand Ballroom next to her intended, Prince Rupert. Her parents chatted with the king and queen, awaiting the proper time to make the pronouncement. Her future decided, she would finish her studies in International Relations at the Sorbonne in June, a month after her twentieth birthday, and be wed to Prince Rupert in August. There was staff, hired for the occasion by Queen Matilda, already attending to the elaborate decorating, catering, and printing arrangements necessary for a royal wedding.

Prince Rupert's proposal came as a bit of a surprise to Lady Clarisse, although not entirely. There were comments for years on how they suited each other. Invited for the weekend in late October, Clarisse and her parents arrived on a chilly afternoon and she and Rupert spent the remaining daylight riding about the grounds. After dinner that evening, he led her to the library, while their parents secluded themselves in the Blue Room.

"They are discussing our future," Rupert explained matter-of-factly.

"Our future?" Clarisse repeated, accepting the crystal glass he offered her.

"Yes." He led her to the leather couch by the crackling fire. After taking a sip from his wineglass, he placed it on a nearby table then sat beside her, looking at her intently. "Clarisse, if I am to one day be King of Genovia, I must have someone by my side." He paused then plunged on. "You would make and excellent queen…and mother."

He waited for her to comment. He would need an heir. Any marriage would have that as an end. She remained quiet, watching him.

"I'm extremely fond of you, as you must know, and I hope I am correct in supposing you find my company bearable," he added.

"Tolerably so."

"And I enjoy yours."

"Even when I beat you at chess?" Smiling, Clarisse looked at him over the top of her glass.

Rupert took her wineglass and set it on the table.

"Even then," he replied, grinning. He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently, his expression serious. "What about it, Rissa? Will you marry me and be queen of Genovia?"

Clarisse considered. She did not love Rupert and knew he did not love her. Nevertheless, it was her parent's wish and it would afford her the opportunity to engage in her chosen area of study far above what she ever hoped for and place her in a position to make a difference in people's lives. One day, perhaps she and Rupert would come to love each other, but it was not a certainty. She made her decision.

"Yes."

"Splendid!" Rupert said, smiling broadly. He leaned forward to give her a kiss on her cheek. "Mother and Father will be so pleased. I was hoping you would agree- there is no one else on my short list for the position."

"Liar. You know there is a whole continent of women who would love to be Mrs. Prince Rupert, " she teased, picking up her wine.

"Flatterer," he retorted. "Well, perhaps there are, but none of them have your qualifications- intelligence, beauty-"

"You think me pretty?" she asked, lifting a brow.

"Of course."

"You said my nose was too long."

Rupert heaved a mock sigh. "I wasthirteen years old. You said my ears were too big."

"Well, maybe they aren't so big, after all. You grew into them quite nicely, actually," she admitted, giving into laughter. Rupert was a handsome man.

"Thank you, my dear," he answered, "and to set the record straight, your nose is just perfect."

He put his arm around her and kissed her gently on the lips. "I'll do everything possible to make you happy, Rissa. You can travel, continue your studies, and become involved in the country's concerns, if you wish. You'll see; everything will be -"

"-simply splendid!" Prince Rupert gushed as he looked around the room, admiringly. "Mother, I think you outdid yourself."

"It befits the precious jewel joining our family," King Wilhelm replied, gazing fondly at Clarisse. "You are a treasure, my dear, and Matilda and I are overjoyed to have you as our daughter."

The king took her hand in his and patted it gently. He smiled at her, then looked to a staff member waiting nearby and signaled for the extra trays of champagne so that all might have a glass for the toast.

"And now, I think it is time to share our joyous news with our guests."

Lady Clarisse took a deep breath as the King called for quiet. After tonight, her life would never be the same.

* * *

Private Joseph Coraza carried his tray to the window at the far end of the chow hall, dumped the remains of his evening meal into the large, plastic trashcan, and stacked it on top the other trays. Christmas music blared from the speakers set into each corner of the large room, adding to the festive atmosphere of paper cutouts taped to the walls and tissue paper garlands hung from the ceiling. On the Christmas tree, artificial to meet the base fire codes, the lights that worked reflected off decorations of silver tinsel and plastic green, red, and white balls. 

A chill rain mixed with sleet greeted him as he left the mess. He donned his cap, but the weather did not dampen his spirits in the least. Nothing could, for earlier that day he learned of his acceptance to Officer's School and his orders to report the first of the year.

All afternoon he gave thought to his future. After completing the course and his commission as a British officer, he decided he would apply for an assignment in Intelligence or ask to remain in Security as well as volunteer for overseas duty. He was ready to see something of the world.

Avoiding the deeper puddles, he made his way past the barracks to the postal center to check his mail. A bare bulb in the ceiling fixture cast a dim, yellowish glow, but it was enough to see that, not surprisingly, his mail slot was empty and he left, headed back to the barracks.

But for Marcus and Maria Helmar, he had no close friends.

He met Marcus at his last academy, a military boarding school near Lucerne, Switzerland, where he had earned a scholarship, to his surprise. Though far better than the school in Spain, it was not a premier academy, but heenjoyed the five years there, for the most part. It afforded him the opportunity to learn several languages, at which he found he was very good, and introduced him to a world that was far beyond the poverty he'd known before. With hard work, he knew that he, too, could succeed.

Marcus's father was the second son of an aristocratic family that had fallen on hard times. The Count, his uncle, owned extensive lands, all of which were nearly worthless. There were funds drawing interest that allowed the Count to live without having to work, but it was at a greatly reduced existence from what his earlier kindred had, and the funds would not last forever.

Doctors, and not wishing to take their children into the depths of Africa where they ran a clinic for the Peace Corps, Marcus's parents placed their children in boarding schools that were near to each other and the Helmar family. Assigned to share a room, Joseph and Marcus quickly became fast friends. The twin's extended family welcomed him to all celebrations, and by the time he graduated, he was as close to Marcus and Maria as a brother.

Marcus let it be known to Joseph that he would be pleased if Joseph one day became his brother in law. It was, Joseph thought, a shame that he and Maria did not love each other that way. Maria was beginning her second year at college, as was Marcus, and Joseph hoped they would stay in touch with him. With no family, their friendship were a great comfort to him.It was all he had.

Ice was beginning to form and the thin layers crunched under his boots. Lowering his head against the rising wind, he thought about his decision a year ago to forgo college and instead join the military. He had not an ounce of regret. At nearly twenty years of age, for the first time in his life, Joseph was beholding to no one. What he did, what he made of himself, was in his own hands.

It was a good feeling.


	2. Chapt 2 age 26

Chapter 2

Amused, even if sleepy, Clarisse Reynaldi watched her four-year-old son Philippe, surrounded by colorful scraps of wrapping paper, tear open yet another present. He was, she thought, a gift…a miracle. The pregnancy had been a hard one; even now, there was concern over whether or not she could have more children. She and Rupert hoped for at least another.

"A twuck!" the child crowed happily.

"A very fine fire engine," Rupert agreed, as he carefully picked a path through the toy littered floor, a cup of coffee in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, then sat down next to Clarisse. "Here you are, my dear."

"Thank you," she said, gratefully taking the cup and saucer. "I'm afraid I need something to wake me. What time is it?"

Rupert took a sip of coffee before checking his watch. "Five-thirty- an early start to the day!"

Clarisse sighed. "Too early."

"Don't tell me you never got up at the crack of dawn on Christmas to check under the tree," he teased.

"Perhaps I did," she admitted, with a smile, "but, I don't recall it being so… early."

"Look! A pony!" The child held up a carved horse for them to see.

"A thoroughbred, just like one in your mother's stable," Rupert said, watching his son drag another box from under the tree, the horse quickly forgotten. It was their family tree, in the library, a mere ten-foot White Pine. He drank more of his coffee then set it aside. "Are you hungry, darling?"

"At this hour?"

Rupert shrugged. "Just a thought."

He placed his right arm around her and she leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. He enjoyed having her close for a moment, then spoke. "If you are awake enough, darling, I have something for you."

"Not waffles, I hope."

Rupert chuckled and slipped his hand into his robe pocket. "No, not waffles. Something better."

She opened her eyes. Before her was a long jewelry case. He set it in her hands.

"Oh, my!"

He beamed as she lifted the emerald and diamond necklace from its velvet box.

"It is magnificent! Thank you, Rupert!" She leaned close, kissing him. She moved the necklace gently, diamonds sparkling.

He kissed her hair, squeezed her shoulder. "On anyone but a queen it might look gaudy, but I'm so glad you like it. Mother said it would go with the new gown you'll be wearing at the New Year's Ball."

"It will, perfectly," Clarisse replied, smiling warmly at her husband as she placed the necklace carefully back into its case. The necklace was certainly an impressive one, as were all the jewels she had received from Rupert or his parents. She set the box aside. "I hope your father is well enough to attend."

Over the past six years that she and Rupert had been married, King Wilhelm's health had steadily declined and Rupert had taken on more and more of his father's duties. His father's personal physician gave them, in private, little hope for the king's recovery. Not wanting to spoil the holidays, Rupert had not told his mother, but Matilda would have to know, soon.

"I do, too," he agreed, frowning. "Perhaps he might feel well enough, at least, to join us for a while this afternoon."

"A bike! A bike!" Philippe cried gleefully, climbing on the shiny, red tricycle. He beeped the horn, decided it was great fun, and beeped it again…and again.

"Let's get these presents opened!" Rupert said, getting down on the Abusson carpeted floor. He pulled his son away from the horn. "Here, you crawl under the tree and get those presents hiding in the back."

Thrilled at a new adventure, Philippe cheerfully did as his father asked. A minute later, he squealed in delight when Rupert hauled him out by his feet.

Clarisse laughed as she watched her son and husband dig for presents, sorting and stacking them into bigger and bigger piles, and was soon on the carpet with them, adding to the mountain of discarded wrapping paper.

* * *

At the moment, he thought, there certainly was not much peace to be found.

Twenty-six year old Lt Coraza, on a two year assignment with the UN, ducked as bullets whizzed over his peacekeeping troops' heads, pinning them in the hastily dug mud-filled trenches.

Charged by the United Nations with preventing violence between the two feuding factions in the eastern African nation, his blue-helmeted troops from Mexico, South Africa, and Pakistan soon found themselves caught in the middle of renewed conflict and under heavy crossfire from both sides. Forbidden by UN orders and directives to return fire, they were helpless. Even if he were to order his troops to engage one or both sides, there was not enough ammunition to fight their way out.

"What we gonna do, sir?"

A dozen men within earshot of the question turned to him, waiting, worried.

A mortar round hit nearby and they ducked again, arms overhead to protect themselves from the flying rocks and debris. The dirt settled and they carefully raised their heads in the shallow ditch.

"Can't stay here," someone to his left muttered, their voice bordering on panic.

"No, we can't…and we aren't," Coraza replied firmly. For all he cared, the two tribes could go at it until there was nothing left but stones and sticks to throw at each other- a spectacle he had already seen in his short stint with the UN Command.

His orders to keep the peace be damned…he was going to save his men.

Coraza looked around. Everyone and everything wore a layer of black mud- clothes, helmets, boots, faces, and gear.

"Anyone have a handkerchief?" he yelled, repeating the question in four different languages. His own was around his sergeant's hand. Every man in the ditch looked at him as if he were crazy.

"Sir…" his sergeant began, wondering if his commander had lost all sense. "You're the only one what carries a-"

"I need something white," Coraza explained.

"Something white? Oh!" The burly sergeant turned and bellowed at the troops. "Find something white or you'll be sitting in this muck for the next week!" There was a flurry of activity up and down the line.

Five minutes later, without inquiring as to who made the sacrifice, Lt Coraza cautiously held in his hand a pair of men's under shorts, more or less white if one disregarded the dark stains. Through a rip in the fabric, he attached it to a splintered stick then held it above the trench line, waving it slowly from side to side. A hail of bullets fell around them.

"By George, that got their attention!" the sergeant exclaimed.

"Make sure everyone's weapon is loaded. Get those grenades out that I brought," Coraza ordered, through gritted teeth. He wrapped the now tattered shorts on the stick and tried again. A few shots popped in the dirt above ….then silence.

The sergeant grinned.

Slowly, Coraza stood, arms open, his gun held above his head, the stick and shorts held high in the other. He looked forward and to the rear of their line- no shots, no movement came from the bushes on either side. He spoke quickly. "On my order and responsibility…if we are fired upon, you will return fire. Follow me!"

One by one, his men, half-crouching, slogged after him through the mire, crawled out onto level ground, and then sprinted to the shelter of a farm a mile away. Behind them, the conflict started anew.

Collapsing against the wall of a pig yard, his chest heaving, the sergeant glanced at Coraza and smiled broadly.

"Merry Christmas, sir!"


	3. Chapt 3 age 36

Serenely, Queen Clarisse acknowledged the curtsies and bows given as she and King Rupert entered the reception hall and proceeded directly to greet their hosts, the President of France, and his wife. The gathering of Europe's wealthiest and titled citizens to celebrate the re-opening of the National Opera House was a stellar social event, one of the largest she had attended since King Wilhelm's death seven years prior, and Rupert's assuming the throne.

The two couples exchanged pleasantries; she speaking in flawless French, Rupert relying on her to make sure the President and Madam understood his own halting attemptsto convey his good wishes and compliments.

"Thank you, my dear," he said with a sigh as they moved away, into the crowd. "I suppose I should have paid more attention to my tutor. I shall repay the favor next month at the Gala in Berlin."

"My grandmother was French and she insisted on our conversing in it exclusively," Clarisse reminded him. "It was learn it, or else. And, thank you- I was terrible at German!"

Rupert covered a laugh and the thought of his wife not excelling at anything she put her mind to. Grandmother or no, Clarisse Gerard would have learned what every young woman of good breeding was expected in order to be a perfect wife and mother. Without a doubt, she was an excellent mother. As to her being a wife, she was wonderful, but the situation was a bit more complex.

As she spoke with an elderly woman, someone who apparently had known her grandmother, he watched her. Clarisse was, as he knew she would be, a superb queen. She was gracious and composed, no matter the setting. Seeing her so cool and always in control of her emotions, he could not help but wonder what happened to the little girl who challenged him to a horse race…and won.

It was a pity that he and Clarisse had not fallen in love. He cared for her beyond telling and very much wanted her to be happy. Although they shared an unbounded admiration and respect for each other, but it was not passionate love. Most of his waking day entailed dealing with matters pertaining to Genovian concerns leaving little time for private moments together. He missed that for she was very pleasant company. Yet, even so, they would not have come to love each other; the spark of love just was not there.

It was only natural, he told himself, that they would grow apart as the years went by. She had her growing interest in Genovian trade and relations with other countries, along with her ongoing involvement in various committees and charities at home. In addition, there was their son to prepare for the throne.

At fourteen, Philippe showed little interest in the crown. However, Rupert knew the boy would come around. Other than Philippe, there was no other Renaldi to take the throne; it would pass to another, less desirable, in Rupert's opinion, side of the family tree. Philippe was a Renaldi, however, and would do his duty. One day, his son would be a fine king.

Rupert wanted more children, but after nearly losing Clarisse during the miscarriage six years ago, he was thankful she was alive and in good health. After the loss of the baby, he did not press her to have another child and intimate relations between them were, even now, infrequent. What was more, he could tell that Clarisse, while not turning him away the few times he came to her, had not embraced his advances and seemed withdrawn.

He frowned; he did not want to burden Clarisse with his physical needs. Even so, it bothered him that it was another area where they were no longer close. She had not expressed concern over their lack of intimacy and seemed satisfied with their arrangement, so he had to assume she must truly be content as things were.

Although he posed the question of marriage to her, theirs was, in truth, an arranged marriage. Never, in any way, had she shown regret for the decision. Clarisse had given him a son and the country an heir to the throne, fulfilling her primary obligation. He could ask no more of her, he decided. and would not make it an issue between them. He would deal with his needs in another manner.

The signal given, she took his arm as they followed their escort to the President's Box. Clarisse was beautiful and indecision tugged at Rupert as they took their seats. But, no. He would not impose his attentions on her again…unless she made the request. The house lights fell and darkness surrounded them.

* * *

Later that evening, as she was preparing for bed, Clarisse 's thoughts returned to the evening. Rupert seemed…distant. He was, as always, unfailingly polite, but it was as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Perhaps it was a matter of Genovian politics or international concerns, but she was not certain. Recalling the reception after the opera, the image of him standing close to a woman, deep inconversation came to mind. The woman had smiled; Rupert checked his watch and nodded. Clarisse's hand stilled, clutching her emerald earrings. Could her husband be planning to…? 

"My dear, you looked lovely tonight," Rupert said, coming into her room. He stood behind her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. He was still dressed in his evening clothes.

"Are you going out again?" she asked, placing the jewelry in its case.

"Er… ah, yes, I am," he replied uncomfortably, then quickly added, "Do not be concerned…just a meeting."

Expression unchanged, Clarisse picked up her brush. There was an awkward silence.

"Sleep well, my dear." Rupert leaned down to kiss her cheek. She composed her features into a smile.

"Thank you. I will," she said, brushing her hair, as Rupert turned to leave. At the door, he stopped.

"Clarisse…may I take you to Tiffany's tomorrow? Perhaps you could find a necklace or bracelet that strikes your fancy?"

"Thank you, Rupert, but I already have plans for tomorrow."

"Ah, I see," he replied. "Good night, then, my dear."

"Good night." Clarisse put away the brush. Perhaps it would only be this once, she told herself.

* * *

"It is wonderful to see you again, Clarisse," the Duchess of Thornfield said softly, as they walked along the museum's hall, following several steps behind the other wives of heads of states. Ahead, the First Lady of France chatted amiably with the other women in the private tour of the Paris Museum of Art. 

"I've missed our visiting one another, Bettina," Clarisse replied. Bettina Addington was a treasured friend from childhood, whose marriage to Morely Addington, the Duke of Thornfield, was also an arranged one. Clarisse knew Bettina's was not as comfortable a match as was hers with Rupert. "How are things with you?"

The duchess looked away, embarrassed. "Not…well. I've brought the girls to Paris for an extended stay."

"I'm sorry there's difficulty. Is there anything I can do?"

Bettina shook her head. "No, but thank you. It is the usual problems. You are fortunate in that you and Rupert were friends before you wed."

Clarisse hooked her arm through Bettina's.

"Simply being acquainted, or even friends, does not mean there won't be…problems," Clarisse answered slowly, thinking of the night before. Unable to sleep, she laid awake and heard Rupert return to his adjoining room several hours later. "Fondness is not the same as love."

"You are right, of course." Bettina saw the flicker of unease in Clarisse's eyes, the touch of sadness in her voice. They walked on, not speaking until they came to where the group waited before a set of double doors.

Bettina stopped, looking at her friend intently. "Clarisse, my dear, do not let your heart grow cold to love…no matter what happens, you must guard against that. One day, you may find love- true love."

Clarisse smiled at the duchess, squeezing her friend's arm in thanks for her understanding. The advice, though well meant, did Clarisse little good. Should that day come when love stepped into her life, it would not matter- she was not free to accept it.

Their hostess led them into the room beyond the open double doors. A murmur of delight ran through the group; tea awaited them among rarely seen Renoirs, Correggios, and Raphaels.

As she turned to enter, someone at the edge of Clarisse's vision caught her eye for a mere second or two- a man, handsome, and self-assured in his movements, ascending the gallery steps with a woman. The queen of Castilla called her name a second time and Clarisse quickly looked away, to answer.

* * *

"What do you think, Major?" Inspector Chesterson asked, around the stub of his unlit cigar. 

Joseph Coraza stood with hands on his hips, his face impassive as his gaze swept over the fourteen boxes of assorted guns, ammunition, grenades, and other weapons that appeared to be a terrorist's shopping spree. He shook his head. "Not it."

"Not it! What the devil do you mean?" The British intelligence agent demanded, nearly biting the cigar in half. "The same crating, same timing, same material- everything's just as our source said it would be!"

Coraza reached a black-leather gloved hand into the container and pulled out a weapon. "Look at it," he answered curtly, tossing it to the inspector. The French detectives assigned to assist them watched uncomfortably. "It's a cheap imitation."

Chesterson checked the gun carefully, turning it from end to end. "Maybe a double cross...they'll run with the money?"

Coraza took a deep breath. "No, a decoy."

They had followed leads for two weeks, trying to intercept an arms shipment that was headed to England. Along with growing discontent across the continent came a rise in terrorist organization and activity. As a liason to British Intelligence, Coraza lent his knowledge, expertise… and opinions.

"They are on to us," he added.

"Bloody hell!" Chesterson threw the gun into the box and turned away, dismayed.

The French agent, Bernard stepped forward andspoke, hesitantly. "Major, are you certain? Perhaps the guns are simply poor quality and-"

"Monsieur, if you would kindly have your men empty the crate?" Coraza interrupted, in very acceptable, if not fluent, French.

"Of course," the agent quickly replied. He gestured to his men and in less than five minutes, the contents were spread on the concrete floor.

"Wood," Chesterson said in disgust, kicking at a fake grenade.

Coraza knelt down and inspected two authentic weapons found on the top layer of the box- a grenade and a handgun, and then finally stood. He handed grenades to Chesterson and Bernard, and held the gun out for them to see. "Notice anything about these?"

The men looked puzzled for a moment, then, understanding, Bernard answered excitedly, "Nobody uses this style pin or firing cap except-"

"Exactly." Coraza smiled. "I believe, gentlemen, we've identified the source."

"I will alert our authorities and Interpol to request all cargo from northern Spain be scrutinized when it arrives across the borders or in our ports. It should not be difficult to trace this back…now that we know where to look."

Coraza offered a small bow. "Monsieur, we are grateful for your most excellent and generous assistance."

Pleased, Bernard rapidly gave orders to his men, overseeing the impounding of the evidence. France had its own share of disgruntled citizens and he was relieved to seal off any source of weapons that might enter. He liked working with the British officer who was not actually British; Coraza let others get the credit for work well done, but did not shirk from taking the blame when a plan did not go as expected.

"Thought we had them," the Inspector Chesterson lamented, as they moved toward the warehouse door, out of Bernard's men's way.

"We will, shortly," Coraza answered. "You want to stay, or shall I?"

"Do you, by chance, have any plans, Major?" Chesterson asked, withdrawing a matchbox from his pocket.

Coraza shrugged. He was late in meeting Micha Tokrov, but knew she would wait. "Since you asked, yes."

The inspector grinned. "Pretty?"

It was Coraza's turn to grin. "Very."

"Ah, well! I'm beyond assignations with beautiful women, these days," Chesterson said, shaking his head. He quickly added, "Besides, my dear wife would kill me. You go."

"Are you certain?"

"Go! One of us, at least, should enjoy being here in Paree." A flame flared as Chesterson struck a match. He sucked on the cigar stub, puffing to get it lit. "This won't take long. You have a good evening with your lady. Oh, by the way, please accept my congratulations on your upcoming promotion to lieutenant colonel. Well, deserved, I must say!"

Coraza nodded his thanks and, with a wave, left.

* * *

An hour and fifteen minutes later, he was arm in arm with Micha, entering the Paris Museum of Art. They had met six years earlier at a military ball in London she attended with a cousin from the British side of her family. Her cousin was a lieutenant of Coraza's acquaintance and introduced them , shortly after Coraza's return from duty with the United Nations. 

They were off and on lovers, seeing each other when their travels brought them together, which was recently, not often, . She worked as a model for an exclusive line of women's clothing, visiting the firm's salons throughout Europe. The designer catered not to the fashion world, but to an elite clientele who could afford his services. Her face was not seen on magazine covers across the continent as were others, but she was every bit as beautiful…and well paid.

"Darling, I hate to drag you to a stuffy museum on such a lovely afternoon, but I promised Ronnie I would take a look at his exhibit. Heaven only knows what he's come up with this time."

"Micha, simply standing in the rain with you would be a delight."

She laughed quietly. "Joseph, you are a dear! Oh, look! I do believe that's Ronnie's monstrosity on the far wall."

He followed her gaze to a huge work in acrylic. "It's…it's…"

"Isn't it, though!" she answered, with a laugh.

They stared at the black canvas with its two white dots in opposite corners.

"I shall have to lie and tell him it's brilliant," she said solemnly. "I might very well be struck by lightening for such a tale."

"I don't know… perhaps it represents man's quest to find his soul in the vastness of humanity," he said sagely.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes and lifted a perfect brow.

"Then again, maybe not," he said with finality.

She tugged on his arm. "I hate to tell you this, but there's more."

They stopped in front of another oversized canvas, this one filled with bloated, misshapen figures in swirls dull greens, grays, and oranges.

"Glad we haven't eaten yet," was all he could think to say.

The next three were even worse, so, deciding they'd seen enough, they went to view works more soothing, such as the Impressionists.

Mounting the stairs, he looked to his left and noticed a dozen or so people, two of whom were obviously bodyguards, entering a room cordoned off from the public by thick coils of velvet roping. It was mostly likely a party of visiting royals and dignitaries, he decided, recalling the news item he'd read about the opera house.

Then, just as the doors were closing, he glimpsed a woman who stood out from the other finely dressed members of the group. She was elegant, young… lovely. The doors closed, and the vision was gone.

* * *

"Joseph," Micha said, slowing her steps as they later strolled along the Seine, among the other couples out to enjoy the evening. "There's something I want to tell you." 

He stopped, concerned. She sounded unlike her self- serious. "What is it?"

A smile played at the corner of her lips. "I met someone last July at a dinner party…I love him."

Coraza could say nothing.

"He and I are getting married in two months." Micha explained, watching him.

"Congratulations," he said, forcing a smile. "Who's the lucky man?" Even though he did not think he loved Micha, he found her marrying-his losing her- disquieting.

"A diplomat assigned here, in Paris- Count DuMer."

"I see."

She took his arm and they continued along the path, unhurried. "A surprise, is it not?"

He drew a deep breath. "To be honest-"

"-and you always are, darling-"

"- yes, it is rather unexpected. This seems a bit sudden- are you sure, Micha?"

She smiled knowingly. "Yes, I'm sure."

"You barely know him. How can you be certain?"

Micha lifted a shoulder a fraction. "My heart knows."

Coraza shook his head. "I don't see how."

"Darling, it is called _love_."

He was quiet, looking out across the river, to the city spreading beyond. What did he know of love? He knew of it in others, his friends Marcus and Maria. During his last visit with them, he'd felt envious of the closeness they shared in their marriages, joy that filled their homes.

He saw love from the outside, looking in; he did not know it in his life- he never had.

"Perhaps that is why. I've never been in love."

"You will be, one day," Micha quickly assured him.

Again, he shook his head, staring at the pavement. "I don't know if I would even… recognize it."

"You will," she repeated, confidently.

She saw a look of doubt cross his face and she stopped, placing her hand on his cheek, turning him to face her. "Joseph, please don't close your heart to the possibility of love. You have far too much to share, darling. One day you will meet her, your special one, and you'll _know_…you'll know without a doubt."

He quickly kissed her palm then took her hand in his, wanting to beleive her. "Perhaps so."

Micha touched his chest, letting her hand rest there. "I'm sure of it."

Joseph smiled, pushing away the empty feeling growing in his heart.

"Come on. Let's get a coffee and you can tell me all about your Count."

* * *

A/N: Thank you all for your reviews! They keep me writing. 

Please take a moment to tell me what you think and offer suggestions...if I need togive more descriptions, make the characters more real, etc. I truly desire to improve.

Thanks!

I hope each of you will have a wonderful and blessed holiday! Merry Christmas!


	4. Chapt 4 age 40

Clarisse Renaldi gazed out the private jet's window as night claimed the land below. Rupert slept beside her, but despite the late hour, she could not. The knowledge that Philippe would soon be leaving Genovia to study in a foreign land caused her more concern than she wished to admit.

The university was an excellent one and she knew he would receive a first-rate education, so it was not that. Genovia was opening a consulate in San Francisco, ostensibly to further trade with Western and Asian partners, so there would be an attaché nearby should there be need, another reason for her not to worry. Although she would prefer him to show a bit more maturity, Philippe had never given her or Rupert cause not to trust him. He would be fine, she told herself.

The question was, would she?

Clarisse dreaded the day her son left- not because of worries for him, but for herself. She feared she would find herself alone, close to no one. There were friends here and there about Europe, of course, but a friend was not the same as someone you loved with all your heart and loved you in return. In that sense, Philippe was all she had.

Her husband was polite and thoughtful, supportive and encouraging…her best friend. But, they did not share a passionate love between them. Clarisse did not regret her marriage, in the least; she knew twenty years ago what she was getting into. It gave her the opportunity to serve her people far more than she ever dreamed and for that, she was grateful.

Her marriage could have been, she was all too aware, much worse. With a sigh, she thought of her friend Bettina Addington, the late Duchess of Thornfield. Her death six months ago was a shock causing Clarisse great distress. Clarisse worried about her friend's daughters because their father, the duke, was not fit to care for them.

There was, at least, Bettina's family to see to the girls, as well as the Duke's sister, Margaret. Clarisse was not close to Margaret, but knew she disapproved of her brother's ways. Margaret had married very well- the Duke of Creshwell, a Briton who, from all accounts, had an excellent reputation. Margaret would keep an eye on her brother and his daughters as much as it was possible, Clarisse hoped.

It was fully night now, the cabin lit by only the glow of soft lights allowing safe movement. Clarisse shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. The attendant appeared and quietly asked if she might bring Her Majesty something and Clarisse declined. Two rows ahead of them, Philippe stretched then settled back, again asleep. At the front of the cabin, a security guard dozed.

She closed her eyes, thinking of what awaited her upon their return to Genovia. Rupert's mother, Matilda, now deceased two years, had been a supporter of many causes that Clarisse was determined to continue. Her personal favorite involved the establishment of botanical gardens to preserve and display the rich varieties of plant life Genovia enjoyed. She persuaded several other crowned heads and first ladies of Europe, to join in creating an association among the universities and gardens across the continent to encourage research into developing new varieties and to further conservation.

More close to home, she was eager to begin renovating the palace grounds and assist with planting her own personal rose garden. Other than horseback riding, getting her hands dirty in the soil was one of the few leisurely pursuits she found time to enjoy.

Another cause Clarisse was deeply involved in concerned improving health care to Genovia's citizens and she was currently supervising the establishment of clinics throughout the country. With Rupert's full support, she lobbied members of Parliament for an initiative to encourage more physicians and health personnel to settle in Genovia by offering incentives such as partial tuition reimbursements along with tax breaks when establishing a medical practice. The results, so far, were excellent.

In looking into the country's educational system, Clarisse was dismayed to find that Genovia was woefully behind in several areas of technology, communications being foremost. Theirs was a country steeped in tradition, valuing the old ways, but she knew that unless Genovia moved into the future, it would be lost in the past. Rupert, while agreeing to the need for a number of improvements, did not share her enthusiasm, in full. However, he did promise to speak with a telecommunications consultant in Paris during his upcoming conference.

The conference was in a month and Rupert was attending alone; would he be alone?

Clarisse tried to push the thought aside, but it returned. While she had her suspicions, she had no proof of his seeing other women. She never looked for any confirmation of this…nor would she.

It was the rarest of occasions that Rupert came to her bed, now, and, truthfully, Clarisse did not encourage him or feel any great desire for him. Intimacy, for the sake of intimacy and not born of love, or the need for an heir, held no appeal. For Rupert- for any man- perhaps it was different. Men, she'd decided long ago, plainly did not think like women. This difference was neither for the better nor for worse, but was simply a difference.

If Rupert needed and preferred an alternative arrangement, it did not have to make an alteration in their relationship, she decided. She was very fond of Rupert and knew he truly cared for her. They were well suited for each other in their roles as sovereignsand she found satisfaction in the knowledge.

It was enough.

Clarisse laid her head on Rupert's shoulder. Mumbling, he moved in his seat so that she rested more fully on his chest. In five minutes, Clarisse was asleep.

* * *

Colonel Joseph Coraza finished his drink then glanced at his watch as he placed the empty glass on a side table. As the commander, he could not leave just yet since the reception was for him and the other newly pinned colonels who had recently arrived. His command, the Security Forces Training Center, would look good on his record, he was told. As far as he was concerned, it had taken him from the field.

It was, however, not as bad as it could have been. At least it gave him the opportunity to make changes in the training system. After several years with Interpol, he was only too aware that the world was a different place now and the military needed to adjust with it. There would be, he knew, opposition to his ideas, but he was prepared to fight for them.

With his degree and master's finished several years prior, he had no other demands on him outside of his job. He could have retired, but he enjoyed the work too much; he only hoped that he could return to a position with Interpol or some other hands-on arrangement after this tour of duty.

Personally, he had no obligations, either. He dated occasionally, but seldom saw anyone more than handful of times. Yesterday evening was almost enough to make him reconsider never asking any woman out again.

His date was as brainless as she was beautiful. It was a challenge to discuss anything with her, much less carry on a conversation that resembled intelligence. Never one to enjoy a companion exposing herself with brazen attire, Coraza preferred women who dressed tastefully, with reserve, causing a man to wonder just exactly what delights lay hidden underneath the lace and silk garments, or even plain cotton shirt. The view across the table last night left nothing to his imagination. It was a marvel she had not come out of her dress every time she breathed.

Despite all that, or perhaps because of it,he reminded himself thathe'd taken her up on her offer to return to her apartment. Rarely did he ever regret doing so, but in this case, he did. It had been a purely selfish act born of loneliness for which he felt terrible.

He didn't even remember her name.

Coraza sighed and looked at his watch again- at least another thirty to forty-five minutes. His unrest began after visiting Marcus Helmar- no, Count Helmar. Coraza could not help but smile. Uncle Helmar had been the one to tell him, over a game of chess, who his father was saying it was best to know the dirt people might throw at you.

Why the Count held such a view, Coraza did not know. The count lived a quiet bachelor life of refined poverty in the family manor house, attended mass twice weekly, never drank more than two glasses of wine a night, and never involved himself in activities more raucous than a spirited game of Bridge. He'd keeled over occupied with exactly that, the winning cards in hand. He'd died happy.

Marcus, now the Count, fretted for months over the crumbling pile of stone that made up the manor and the absolutely worthless acreage he'd been left. In a totally unexpected turn of events, Marcus woke up one morning to find the troublesome, exorbitantly taxed land in northern France was uniquely suited geographically for the French Institute of Science's experimental energy site. Marcus unloaded it for a small fortune.

To celebrate, he'd gutted the manor and had it redone, creating beautiful vacation home for when he could escape his law practice in Parisor Maria's family visited from Switzerland. They invited him for the weekend and he'd enjoyed it very much. Marcus' boys were great fun, begging for stories about his military adventures. Maria's daughter, his godchild, was pure delight, when not sitting for an hour at a time in his lap, listening to him read her stories in different languages, she was pleading for him to teach her how to dance.

He'd left feeling more alone than ever.

It was still not too late to marry and have a family of his own… as Maria reminded him at every opportunity. He smiled and said that he'd yet to find a woman he couldn't live without. Maria replied that perhaps he should look for someone he could live with, instead. There was every reason to believe that Maria was already making a list of women for him to meet, the next time he visited.

"Well, there you are, Colonel!"

Coraza turned to see General Olson, one of his first commanders.

"Good evening, sir," he replied.

"It is, indeed! Congratulations, Joseph. Can't think of a better man for the job!"

"Thank you, sir." Olson, Coraza knew, was the one who'd pushed him for the job. "I hope I live up to your expectations."

The general laughed. "I have no doubt of that." He waved his glass toward Coraza and continued seriously. "Lot's of work to be done- changes to be made. We need someone who's not afraid to do what has to be done. You can count on my support, Joseph."

"I appreciate that, sir."

Olson sipped his drink, peering thoughtfully at someone across the way. "Now, there's a fellow who might be good to have on our side. Have you met Morely Addington, the Duke of Thornfield?"

"No, sir." Coraza felt the blood drain from his face.

"I'll introduce you."

"Sir, perhaps that would not be-"

"Nonsense! Addington can be a tremendous help to an aspiring officer…the devil of a hindrance, though, if he takes a turn against you, I must admit. You'll have no problem." Olson grabbed Coraza by the arm and began walking toward the stout, gray-haired man. "Your Grace!"

Morely Addington looked around, then, recognizing the general, nodded dismissively to the junior officer he had been grilling. The captain hurried away, glad to escape.

"Your Grace, I would like to present Colonel Joseph Coraza."

"Colonel Coraza-" The duke's eyes widened before abruptly narrowing. He emptied his glass and motioned to a passing waiter to take it and bring another.

"Good evening, sir," Coraza managed. The words burned in his throat. His father- the man who'd never once acknowledged his existence other than to pack him off to school under threat.

"You!- so, you are one of Lord Olson's new commanders?" Addington replied, catching himself. A waiter scurried over with the duke's drink and he took it, downing half in two gulps, never taking his eyes off Coraza.

"Yes, sir," Joseph managed.

"General, may I speak to the colonel alone…to offer some words of advice?"

"Certainly, Your Grace," Olson answered, pleased the duke was taking an interest in his friend and protégé. He'd known Joseph nearly eighteen years and respected him as a soldier and man. He'd see a star on Coraza's shoulder if he had anything to do with it.

Alone, neither man spoke, but studied one another. Coraza saw a sallow-skinned, aging man whose jowls had begun to sag. It was, however, the eyes staring back at him that were the most noticeable- they were just like his own, but full of loathing.

"It is unwise to cross me," the duke declared.

"I have never crossed you," Coraza replied evenly, trying to control his anger. "I have never sought you out or made demands of any sort against you."

"Nor will you!"

"Nor will I."

As a boy, Coraza dreamed that one day his father would come for him saying it had all been a mistake, and that he loved him and had searched after him for years. It had been a foolish dream.

Since that time, Coraza lived his life as if his father were dead, giving no thought to the duke.

"You will not come near me again and will betray to no one that we are…connected in any way," Addington ground out, his face perfectly calm to anyone watching.

"I assure you, I have no desire to do so!" Coraza replied vehemently.

Morely Addington stared at Coraza.

"You may think you have nothing to lose," the duke began, shrewdly. "But, you would be mistaken. I have great influence." He smiled smugly then continued slowly. "You have two sisters…"

Coraza took a breath. Sisters…he had family.

"…who will be of marriageable age in a number of years." Addington shrugged and looked away as if unconcerned. "I have not decided if I should arrange something suitable. They are, of course, completely dependent upon me- now that their mother is dead."

For a long moment, Coraza was silent, unable to speak. The realization struck that it was not just him- the duke disliked his own legitimate daughters.

"Sir…" he began, but his voice trailed off. All the questions thathe buried away all those years ago hadvanished. Finally, he simply asked, "Why?"

"Why what?" The duke regarded him with contempt.

"Why do you hate…me so?" Coraza felt like a lost, orphaned eight-year old again, and detested it, having fought so hard to rid himself of the pain.

The duke drew himself up as straight as his slumped frame would allow, then spat, "Because you exist."

Morely Addington turned on his heel and marched away without another word.

* * *

Lieutenant Kent Howe leaned against the cool marble pillar and watched his uncle with great interest. His mother was nothing like her brother, Morely Addington- thank God. His father, Everett Howe, the Duke of Creshwell, could barely abide being in the same room with the man. Family functions to which his uncle required an invitation were tense affairs and everyone heaved a sigh of relief when the duke left, usually in a rage.

Morely Addington was without a conscience- he was a cross, vindictive man who was cruel for the simple reason that he could be. Now that his uncle drank heavily, his behavior was even more unpredictable. He listened to no one; heeded no advice.

Kent felt sorry for his cousins Lady Lucinda and Lady Cassandra. Cassie was ten and Luci was eight years old, and they were charming girls- their late mother's influence, unquestionably. His own mother tried to look after them and was successful in convincing her brother to change their boarding school to one closer to their home, in England. The girl's holidays were spent with either his family or with the family of the girls' mother. Kent looked upon them more as sisters, than as cousins.

There was talk that Duke of Thornfield's vast land holdings and wealth throughout several European countries were suffering from neglect and years of poor management. Nonetheless, the duke's title carried immense weight; it was an old one, originating centuries past. The king of Cerneland, where his uncle held his title, was ineffective in forcing the duke to take responsibility. Even King Rupert, who ran a tight ship, complained to no avail about the clear cutting the duke ordered for the small portion of his lands that lay in northern Genovia.

There was also talk, only in the lowest of voices and behind closed doors in the family's parlors, that the Duke of Thornfield had an illegitimate son prior to his first marriage. No one spoke of it to his uncle, of course, but several close members of the immediate family knew.

The man talking with Morely Addington was that son- Joseph Coraza.

The duke spoke, his face darkening, then pivoted on his heel quickly, albeit unsteadily, and left.

Indirectly, his parents tried to help Coraza. When they learned that Uncle Morely had stopped paying tuition at the poor excuse of a boarding school he'd hidden his son away in, they arranged for Coraza to receive a "scholarship" to a military academy.

It wasn't one of Europe's finest- that would have caught the duke's attention and perhaps placed their nephew in a sticky situation should someone have paid close attention to Coraza's birth certificate. The school was, however, one of good reputation and Coraza apparently had excelled.

Despite the obstacles of his birth and parentage, his cousin was doing very well for himself. Kent heard nothing but praise and respect in response to his quiet inquiries about Colonel Coraza. He attended his cousin's promotion ceremony a week ago, sitting at the back, and was very impressed by the colonel's service record.

Kent very much wanted to meet his cousin, but his parents had warned him against contacting Coraza. Morely Addington would not be beyond ruining the colonel's career, and Joseph Coraza's career was all that his cousin possessed in the world.

For that reason only, Kent Howe forced himself not to follow, but watched as his cousin walked slowly from the room.


	5. Chapt 5 age 49

Chapt 5 age 49

"Everything is ready, ma'am."

"Thank you, Anne," Queen Clarisse replied, snapping the briefcase shut. "Please inform the king I am leaving."

Rupert would see her off; he always did. The trip was to attend the European Economic Summit, this year held in Brussels. The Palais de Nations was a beautiful forum for the event and she was pleased to be returning to the city. Although she doubted she would, Clarisse hoped to be free for an evening to enjoy the sights of the old town.

An aide brought her coat just as Rupert entered the room.

"Ah, my dear, so you are off!"

"Yes, there's a reception this afternoon and I thought I'd speak with King Gustav about the difficulties we are both facing with the Duke of Thornfield."

Rupert shook his head. "Ugly affair, that. Give Gustav my best." He took her briefcase and offered his arm.

"Of course. I'll invite him to come visit us during the Festival of Flowers next spring, too."

"An excellent idea. Perhaps he and I can get in a bit of hunting."

At the top of the steps, Rupert waved the aides and footman aside and waited until he and Clarisse had a degree of privacy then slipped his arm around her.

"I will miss you."

"I will call you every night from Brussels."

"Please, and I'll call from London." He kissed her forehead and his expression became serious. "I care very much about you, you know."

"Yes, I know."

He took her hand in his and led her down the steps, to the car. "Never doubt that, Rissa. You and Philippe are always first."

He meant it. She squeezed his hand and smiled. "I know. I always have."

Rupert placed her briefcase on the car seat, then faced her.

"You'll be late." Still, he kept her hand in histhen lifted it to his lips. "Goodbye, my dear."

She kissed his cheek then got in, the car pulling away a minute later.

The trip to the airport was a half hour's drive. Normally, she would use the time to go over correspondence or read reports. This morning, however, she allowed herself to gaze out the window, watching her Genovia go by. She loved everything about the country and its people.

There were so many measures she wanted to accomplish for them. Among her goals for the upcoming summit was one to join with Belgium in promoting European-made lace and fine linens. It would open numerous venues for Genovia's craftsmen if the agreement found favor. In addition, there were always topics for discussion with Genovia's neighbors France, Italy, Cerneland, and Switzerland about border concerns, trade, and currency exchanges.

Rupert would be attending a NATO meeting in London when she returned and although she could fly directly there from Brussels, she decided against it so that she might dedicate the new medical center. He would be home after a week, in time to accompany her at the wedding of King Gustav's nephew, Cerneland's heir to the throne.

Genovia's heir, their son Philippe, was presently single, yet she and Rupert were grandparents. The child, Amelia, would soon be eight years old and it broke her heart not to see her granddaughter. She and Rupert flew to San Fransisco after the baby's birth and visited when the girl was four. Since then, they had stayed away, per Philippe and Helen's agreement. She sent birthday and Christmas gifts each year, receiving a short thank you note a month later. They were tied with a ribbon, along with photos of Amelia, in the chest on her dresser.

She and Rupert did not agree with the decision to shelter Amelia from knowing of her birthright, but bowed to her parent's wishes. One day, when his daughter was of age, Philippe would speak with her about her heritage. With all her heart, she hoped Helen and Philippe's decision was for the best.

She wondered if Amelia even remembered her. She sighed aloud. Her aide turned to check on her and she smiled at him reassuringly.

Clarisse wondered what the future would bring and if Philippe would marry again. If so, she hoped it was for love.

Not that her own arranged marriage was unbearable; it was not. She accepted that Rupert saw, on very infrequent occasions, other women. Had she been in love with him, she would have experienced jealousy, but, as it was, there was none. He was discreet, seeing them only when outside the country and he never put her in an embarrassing position.

Rupert was a generous husband and a wonderful father to Philippe. He trusted her judgment, consulted her frequently on state matters, and supported her efforts without hesitation. She respected him immensely; Rupert was, she was convinced, one of the finest heads of state in the whole of Europe.

Her life was a busy, yet interesting and satisfying one. In all honesty, she would not trade it for any other.

* * *

What she needed more than anything, Queen Clarisse decided as she touched up her lipstick in the ladies' room gilded mirror, was a cup of tea. Listening to the obstinate Minister of Trade from Ravenstein, who was a relative of Baron von Troken and just as annoying, was giving her a headache. 

Slipping away from the meeting during a particularly heated argument, shespent the past twenty minutes in the blissful silence of a ladies' lounge on the other side of the building. Her aide, her only companion on the trip, was out seeing to a few, quick errands so she had not been disturbed. Yes, a cup of tea would be ideal. Recalling that the refreshment table in the meeting room held only a generic assortment of teas, and looking for any reason not to return just yet, she headed to the ornate Reception Hall, downstairs, for a packet of a superior blend.

Despite the stubborn minister, the summit was going well. She and Gustav agreed to press the Duke of Thornfield about his lands in their respective countries and had the rough outline of a joint tourist venture in the mountainous area in the Alps where the two countries adjoined. France wanted to cooperate on improving the highway over the mountains the two countries shared, and the Italian minister asked for a meeting with her later to discuss increasing the amount of pears shipped to his country. Genovia was doing well economically and its citizens enjoyed a standard of living higher than much of the continent, but Clarisse knew better than to let things simply rest as is.

As she neared the Reception Hall, she heard voices and quickened her steps, not wishing to meet anyone. Pushing open one of the large, carved doors she entered, startling a group of white-jacketed men who turned and stared at her. The refreshment table was still set, except for the pastries and other perishables, and Clarisse lifted a hand, motioning to the group across the room, as she moved to the table at her right.

"Pardon me, I merely wish to get a teabag."

Searching in the basket, she found an acceptable blend. Then, disliking the idea of rejoining the meeting just yet, she took a cup and saucer and prepared the tea, adding cream and sugar, and laying a spoon on the saucer to remove the bag after steeping. If she were gone too long, the other delegates would notice her absence. She turned to find the men walking toward her. Clarisse nodded and stepped forward, holding the teacup for them to see.

"Thank you, but I found everything without difficulty and-"

It was at that moment she noticed the guns.

Suddenly, the lights went out followed by a blinding flash and a deafening **BANG!** Stunned, she dropped the cup andwas falling to her knees as a strong arm wrapped around her, pulling her up. Clarisse struggled, getting an arm free, and scraped her nails across her assailant's face. She slammed her shoe heel into his knee as hard as she could. Behind her, the man cursed, and another arm encircled her, nearly cutting off her breath.

Clarisse began to fight for her very life.

* * *

Stroking his goatee thoughtfully, Colonel Coraza listened to the spotty cell phone recording, softly translating the conversation for the other two men at his side and others gathered nearby. To his left, a younger man shook his head, dreadlocks going in all directions. 

"I'm going to go back to accounting, I swear!" Toke, otherwise known as Percival Pastewite, grumbled as he yanked the wig off impatiently and flung it aside. He removed the tape and put it back in its marked case. "Something's missing."

"Something's up," Coraza corrected him.

"But what?" Jacque "Madman" DuMer asked, pulling off his clerical collar and black robes with a relieved sigh. The tattoos of cavorting young women covered his bare chest and arms; there was one for every port he visited during his stint in the navy- and he had visited a lot of ports.

"Aren't you supposed to wear something under that, Rasputin?" Toke asked.

"Nah, nobody ever looks." Madman leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head of shoulder length black hair. "I'm gonna give up the collar, anyway."

"For what?"

"Think I'll be an intellectual on holiday, next time. You know, out looking for the chicks," he explained. He gently scratched the area around his nose rings. "I think that disguise will work better.

"Oh, sure. The naked women on your arms shouldn't be a problem, at all."

"Homecoming queens," Madman replied with a grin.

Next to his agents, with his simple goatee and gold earring, Coraza looked completely normal. It was, however, enough to throw off the sort of people he usually dealt with in the upper levels of society. None suspected he was a British officer assigned to Interpol.

It took several years, but he pulled strings and called in old favors to gain reassignment to Interpol as an advisor. The fact that he did his advising while fully participating in each unit's field activities went uncommented on by his superiors. They were happy to have him.

When the last Special Operations commander left, Chesterson, no longer an inspector but a regional director and unable to abide staying put in his office, offered him the post 'just until another CO is found.' It had been a year since then and Coraza doubted that anyone was even looking for a replacement. That was fine with him.

"Let's see those new transcripts," he said, ignoring his agents' banter as he got up for another cup of coffee. Hand-selecting each member of his team, he knew they were all excellent agents, even if they tended to burn off stress by eccentric conduct at times.

Over the next twenty minutes, the pieces fell into place as they read. Delegates to the European Economic Summit at the Palais de Nations were in danger from a plan to take them hostage against demands that specific convicted terrorists across Europe be released from prison. The kidnappers would then kill the hostages. Tonight.

"Move!" he shouted, running for his bag. The others followed right on his heels.

Forty-two minutes later, a "flash-bang" grenade in hand, Coraza crouched outside the servicedoors to the Grand Reception Hall. Swiftly and quietly, during the past fifteen minutes, the delegates were ushered out of the building and into waiting vans and whisked to safety under protective guard.

Not wanting to risk tipping off the terrorists located in the Reception Hall, Coraza delayed the search of the hallways, rooms, and toilets on this floor of the building until the last minute. A team of Belgian police was, at the moment, quietly doing just that. There should be few, if any, persons in the area; all conferences met in the meeting rooms on the other floor, but should shots fired, he did not want to risk the safety of any civilians.

His knee beginning to ache, Coraza rubbed it with his free hand. The pain was getting worse, he noted absently. One day, he would have to have it fixed as the doctors kept suggesting.

He shifted his weight to his other leg. Dressed in black ops gear and sweating under his body armor, he was anxious to go. In his ear, the voice of Chesterson, who'd refused to stay away, informed him what was happening in the hallway that and his man at the power switch was ready. Coraza gave thumbs up, looking around the anteroom to make sure his men saw it then slipped his night vision goggles into place.

Pulling the grenade's pin, he held the long, black metal tube and began to count, just loud enough for them to hear. On 'six', he eased the door open…

…and saw a woman.

In a heartbeat, he registered that the woman, seen from behind at an angle, wore a designer suit with high-heeled shoes and held a teacup in her jeweled fingers. She was definitely not a terrorist.

A second later, the lights went out, and he flung the canister toward the center of the room, away from the woman, before turning to protect his eyes and ears from the blast.

Before the doors had stopped rattling, he was on his feet, leading the way.

Immediately looking to his left, he saw her sink to the floor, and he began to run, shouting orders to his men to follow the plan. From behind, Coraza grabbed the woman and hauled her to her feet. A shot sounded. He had to get her out.

The woman in his grasp had a different idea.

_"Damn!"_ Coraza hissed, gritting his teeth as the woman blinded him by knocking off his night vision goggles and catching the corner of his eye with her nails as they raked across his face. He wrapped his other arm around her then slipped on the wet floor, barely staying on his feet.

Something clamped down on his hand- _hard_ -before the woman nearly dropped him with a kick to his already painful knee.

_"Stop! I won't hurt-"_ he yelled, pulling his hand from between her painfully strong jaws, feeling his skin tear.

_"You'll hurt yourself!"_ he shouted. An elbow hit his nose.

_"I do not want to hurt you!"_ he yelled again, feeling blood trickling down the back of his throat and out his nose. He turned his head so that the blood would not soil her.

_"Let me go!"_ the woman cried.

She hesitated in her struggles and he loosened his grip a bit. Thank God, Coraza thought, she was going to calm down. He took a breath. "We're with the-"

Suddenly, the she-devil in his arms twisted and with a boot worthy of a pro soccer player, drove her knee into his groin.

"-_police_!" Coraza gasped, leaning against her, his head dropping to her shoulder as blinding agony made breathing nearly impossible. When he managed a breath against the pain, he repeated the word into her ear, in every language he knew. Surely, the hellcat would understand that!

She didn't. With renewed zeal, the wild woman ripped into him, clawing and kicking before he could stand upright. At that moment, he fervently wished he'd left her in a heap on the floor or, better yet, left her to the terrorists. Given five minutes, she'd probably have them begging for his men to come rescue them.

A fist caught him in the jaw.

It wasn't until the female demon tried to elbow him in the gut andinstead smacked her arm against the inch-thick protective ceramic plates of his armor, did she stop her assault.

He grabbed her, pulling her tight against his body, not caring if he broke her ribs. The woman stilled and without letting her go the least bit, he quickly glanced around to get his bearings. Faint, but visible, he saw light behind him and shapes moving- his backup unit was pouring into the room.

"Chesterson!"

Twenty feet away, a red light flashed. Coraza half carried, half dragged the woman to him, shoving her into the director's arms.

"Get her safe and watch out!" Coraza barked, before limping away as fast as he could to join his men.

* * *

The clock reading shortly before two in the morning, Coraza carefully eased his tired body into the tub of hot water, wincing at every movement, every inch. Although he ached from one end to the other, that was not the worst of it. 

His men, following the plan exactly, had subdued the terrorists long before he subdued his female terror. Having quickly restrained the prisoners, they then enjoyed the spectacle of his being kicked, kneed, bit, and scratched. When the lights came on, after the woman was gone, everyone stared at him before looking away quickly, trying not to laugh, but unable to hide their grins.

The medics, ignoring the less injured terrorists, sprang on him and went to work, despite his adamantly waving them away. He watched the clean up operations from a chair, with an ice pack on his face. He would have rather put it between his legs, but masculine pride prevented it.

Casting a glance down at the area in question, he shook his head. He was going to be black and blue, sore and tender for a while. It definitely wouldn't help his love life, .

Not that it mattered. Working fourteen-hour days, six, sometimes seven, days a week left little time to meet a woman who shared hisinterests in history and current events. He'd grown tired of merely a pretty face many years ago. Micha said he would one day meet _the_ one…at this point, he sincerely doubted it.

Although his men kidded him about a elegantly-dressed female working him over, they had all seen him take down men much larger than himself without breaking a sweat so knew he'd done his best not to hurt her. Chesterson made the point of mentioning in front of his men the fact that other than Coraza carelessly bleeding all over her, the woman was quite well and unhurt.

For her privacy, in the official reports she was referred to only as 'a bystander evacuated from the scene.' Shielding her from view of the police and others in the building, Interpol whisked her away, immediately. Coraza didn't even know her name.

Later, to answer her questions and ensure she was well, Chesterson spoke with her. Appalled at having mistakenly fought her rescuer, she had asked to meet the man who'd got her to safety, to ask for forgiveness. Chesterson, however, explained it was not necessary. Coraza nearly protested when Chesterson told him that, but the director's next words stopped him.

She was a queen.

A pity, really, Coraza thought with a sigh, gingerly touching the washcloth to his raw cheek. He would liked very much to have met her, perhaps taken her out for dinner…or, invited her back to his apartment.

She was one _**magnificent**_ woman.

**

* * *

**

**Well, they finally met...sort of! Be a dear and tell me what you think of it. Your comments make writing much more fun.**

There should be only one more chapter in this story, but another will begin when Joseph begins his work at the palace.

A word about Rupert. I disliked having him cheat on Clarisse, but, alas, it seemed necessary for an end. Clarisse, however, said she was very fond of him, so he wasn't all bad, really, and I hope that shows.


	6. Chapt 6 age 50

Chapter 6 age 50

Having finsihed dressingin her dark mauve, silk ball gown, Queen Clarisse thanked her personal maids and dismissed them, wanting a moment by herself before going downstairs to meet Rupert. For the annual Pear Ball that night, she and Rupert had invited ministers and ambassadors from Genovia's closest neighbors along with representatives from several other European monarchies and trade partners.

Tomorrow, the traditional picking of the first pear would take place and it was her turn to do the honors. Fortunately, there was a very low hanging limb so she could simply stand on a small dais and pluck a pear without climbing up a ladder as in years past. She refused, however, to wear the traditional outfit, leaving that to her honorary attendants. Her teal Jules Drew-designed outfit would work very well and certainly look much better on her than the flounced skirt and apron.

Wondering if her maids pressed the skirt and jacket, but not wishing to call them back, she went to see. Like most women, Clarisse enjoyed clothes. Unlike most, she had two rooms filled with them and another smaller one for her shoes, hats, and accessories.

The largest room held gowns for every sort of occasion- formal or semi-formal, balls, receptions, and dinners- and for each season. One-half of the second room held clothing suitable for afternoon tea and cocktails. The other half held her "work" clothing, the sensible suits she wore when conducting affairs of the country and speaking in public. A large, walk-in closet held specialty items such as her riding outfits along with 'down time' wear, as she called them. These were casual clothes for working in the garden or simply walking about the palace grounds.

Clarisse moved slowly along the wall, searching for the mauve skirt and jacket then stopped when her eyes fell on a blue outfit, still wrapped in plastic from the cleaners. It was the one she'd worn in Brussels, six months earlier. Hesitantly, she pulled it out and lifted the plastic. Faint but visible bloodstains covered the front and back of the jacket.

She bit her lip, blushing in shame at the memory of how she'd fought the man trying to help her. With eyes closed, she held the outfit to her chest and again wished she could have apologized. It was dark and she never saw him, but knew she hurt him; Rupert explained what a kick in the privates felt like. She still remembered how the man fell against her, clinging to her after she'd kneed him as hard as she could.

It puzzled her why he allowed her to hit and kick so, but when he'd finally grabbed her, pinning her arms in a vice-like grip so hard that she could hardly move or breath, she understood. During the time she was fighting, he was trying to calm her down and not hurt her.

A director from Interpol aided her in quickly leaving the building and saw to keeping her identity secret. On the drive to her hotel, he gave little information except that she'd inadvertently walked into an operation and the maneuver was already in progress when they saw her. About her rescuer, the director laughed quietly and said only that the man was a skilled soldier and agent accustomed to rough work and for her not to give it another thought.

That proved impossible.

There were times when she awoke, heart pounding and out of breath, and could almost feel the man's arms around her, his breath on her cheek as he held her close, protecting her. When she could draw a breath, it was as if she could smell the scent of his aftershave mixed with that of his sweat and black powder from the explosion. And his voice… she could still hear his voice low and insistent, a curious mix of accents.

She would never forget.

Clarisse placed the suit back on the rack, her hand lingering for a moment. What kind of man would charge headlong into a room of terrorists, risking his life to save someone he didn't know?

He must be, she decided, _extraordinary_.

* * *

Baron von Strupp eyed Clarisse Renaldi with a gleam in his eyes. She was beautiful, rich, royal, and, starving for attention from a man. While she and Rupert appeared happily married, the baron had it on good authority from his cousin von Troken that the arranged marriage was in name only and Clarisse had her eye out for some action. 

Yes, the baron thought, watching her feign interest in what Rupert was saying, Clarisse must be ripe and ready for someone to take her to bed and liven up her life. He was just the man to do it.

Clarisse glanced his way then pretended to laugh at something her husband said. The baron carefully ran his hand through his toupee and sucked in his gut. She wanted him, he was certain; he could tell by the way that she looked at him coyly. von Struppig rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Two of his past mistresses told him he was a handsome man. He would not describe himself as stout, but as sturdy in build. Standing close to two meters in height, he knew he cut an impressive figure to the ladies. It should not be difficult to get her away from Rupert and out of the room. The garden held many secluded nooks and they could always sneak off to an unused bedroom later.

Baron von Strupp laughed to himself then knocked back the rest of his scotch and started out across the ballroom. He was going to cuckold old Rupert right under his undeserving kingly nose.

* * *

"Rupert!" Clarisse admonished, trying her best not to laugh at her husband's comments about Baron von Strupp. She glanced at the preening baron, then broke in to laughter and quickly looked away, covering her mouth with her gloved hand. 

"He's my cousin, although a distant one, my dear, and a pain in the ass."

"Still, you shouldn't say such things!"

"Why not, pray tell?" Rupert asked, lifting her hand to his lips. "He looks as if he's planning a palace coup... or prowling for an unlucky woman to accost."

Rupert was right. The baron was swaggering across the room as if he owned the place. He probably thought he should; his side of the family nearly had the crown, at one point in history.

"My dear, I must speak with the Prime Minister for a moment about that conference in Vienna next month. Will you excuse me?" Rupert asked, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.

"Of course."

The Ambassador from Liechtenstein and his wife approached Clarisse and they chatted for a moment before the music began and the ambassador excused himself and his wife to dance. Clarisse stood watching the couples whirl around the dance floor, enjoying a moment alone.

"Queen Clarisssse," someone hissed in her ear. She jumped, turning around. It was the baron.

"Oh, I'm afraid you startled me," she offered in apology, backing away.

Baron Von Strupp looked at her through half closed lids. "May I have this dance?"

"Oh, well, I…" she stammered, trying to think of an excuse, but took too long. She had no choice or else she would appear rude. "Well, yes.. thank you."

The baron took her in his arms, pulling her tight against his body. She tried to move away, but he held her. In the many years she was queen, she danced with numerous men, some good dancers, and some bad. But, none had held her this close. It was just not done.

"Baron, I'm afraid this is a bit uncomfortable," she said, pressing away from him.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he replied, letting her go. "Forgive me, please. It was the excitement of the evening and lovely music."

"Yes, of course," she answered, as good manners dictated. They danced for a minute before the baron guided her through the open doors, to the porch.

"Just a moment of fresh air," he said in reply to her questioning look.

The evening was very cool, but beautiful. Ignoring the baron, Clarisse walked to the balcony edge, where two glasses of wine and champagne sat. Their owners were most likely in a dark corner of her garden; she hoped they were not tromping on her newly planted petunias. She would have to remind the caterers to be more diligent in picking up glasses at the next function.

Gazing out over her rose garden, Clarisse was pleased. It was coming along nicely, she thought, ignoring the baron. She would stay a moment, and then go back inside, avoiding giving insult to him.

She felt a hand on her back, an arm steal around her waist, and she turned quickly, jerking away.

"Sir!"

"Clarisse, there's no need to play bashful with me," he said, moving closer. "I know you are a passionate woman and need someone to share your burning passions with."

"My _what_?"

"Your burning passions…your fiery, unfulfilled sexual desires that haunt your lonely bed and thoughts at night," he replied, trapping her against the stone wall.

"Baron, I'm not haunted, I assure you." Clarisse answered firmly.

She would have laughed at von Strupp's horrible lines were she not cornered on a deserted balcony in the dark with him. The thought of how she'd kneed the Interpol agent in Brussels came to mind; if the situation worsened, it felt good to know she could do the same to the pudgy man before her.

"I can quench those flames for you." The baron leaned closer and placed his hands on his shoulders. "I burn, too."

"My dear baron, with that I can _certainly_ help," she said. The baron leered, delighted.

Clarisse picked up a nearly full glass from the wall behind her then dumped it down the front of von Strupp's pants.

Immediately, he let go and she made sure his fire was out by quickly pouring the other glass of cold champagne on him. The baron staggered back, staring at his soaked britches.

"Better?" she asked boldly. If nothing else good came from her experience in Brussels, her self-confidence had soared. There were times Clarisse felt she could take on just about anyone.

"Ah! There you are my dear!" Rupert said from the doorway. He walked over and casually put his arm around his wife then looked at von Strupp and asked, with all innocence, "Did you have an accident, cousin?"

The baron muttered something harsh under his breath before storming away toward the garden, out of sight of the other guests.

Rupert stared after his distant kinsman, a grin on his face. "Well done, my dear!"

"Were you there the whole time?" she asked, embarrassed.

"No, I'm afraid not. Only saw you pour that glass of champagne on him," he replied, regretfully.

"There was one before that, too," she admitted, unable to keep an enormous amount of pride from her voice.

Rupert laughed. "Really? How wonderful! You are incredible, my dear!" He gave her a hug and a kiss on her forehead. "Still, perhaps Johansson's suggestion you have a full-time bodyguard is something to consider."

"I suppose one cannot be too careful these days," she admitted.

"True," Rupert replied. "I'd very much like to dance with you. Dare I risk it?"

"I promise to stay away from the champagne," she answered lightly.

"Then, Queen Clarisse might I?" he asked with a bow, gesturing toward the ballroom. Clarisse nodded regally and gave him her hand, letting him lead her to the dance floor. They danced most of the evening and dissolved into embarrassing fits of laughter every time a waiter offered them champagne, thoroughly mystifying their guests.

* * *

A week later found her digging happily in her rose garden, seeing to the newest rose cuttings. Once or twice a month, she tried to schedule time for her garden or to ride her horses. It was time for herself, to let her thoughts sort themselves out. Today found them returning to the incident with the baron. He was a boor to have made advances toward her and she'd neither wanted him to nor done anything to encourage him. 

Suddenly, something crept into her thoughts. She stopped, the rose cutting clutched in her hand.

What if one day she met a man and fell in love, and _wanted_ him to approach her?

A ridiculous thought, she scolded herself, plunging the cutting into the rooting hormone. Even if the situation between her and Rupert was somewhat unconventional, there were marriage vows to keep.

_Rupert doesn't._

Still, she insisted, shaking the excess powder off the roots, theirs was a solid marriage that would not end under any circumstances. They both had responsibilities to the people of Genovia, to each other.

_But if it's love…_

Love… Bettina Addington's words came back to her.

_"Clarisse, my dear, do not let your heart grow cold to love…no matter what happens, you must guard against that. One day, you may find love- true love."_

For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to have a man love her and to love him in return, to know that his heart, soul, and body belonged only to her and that she could open herself completely to him.

Clarisse tried to imagine feelings that strong. It was very… disturbing….even frightening to think about.

It would not matter, even if she were to meet such a man, Clarisse told herself firmly as she briskly shoved soil into the area around the cutting then tamped it hard with her gloved fist.

Above all, she was a queen with a duty to her subjects. She could do _nothing_ to risk a scandal of any sort, no matter the reason. She would allow _nothing_ to interfere with her service to her people.

It would be unforgivable. A queen must be above such things, even love, despite what is in the heart.

Clarisse reached for the basket of cuttings and moved to the next hole, locking away all thoughts of desire and love.

* * *

"You would think most people would be happy with a title, money, and influence, wouldn't you?" Elizabeth Connors asked.

Having just taken a bite of his steak, Joseph Coraza simply nodded.

"Just shows you that some just can't be satisfied."

"How's that?" he asked, reaching for his glass.

They met at a play earlier that evening, their seats next to each other. When she turned to him during the intermission and systematically decimated the playwright's understanding of the relationship between Queen Mary II and her sister, the future Queen Anne, he suggested they skip the rest of the play in favor of dinner. He was thoroughly enjoying her company; she was a history major, witty and intelligent, and pretty in an unconventional sort of way.

"Well," she said waving her fork threateningly over the salad without actually spearing anything, "we have all manner of parents at our school- I'm the assistant administrator at a private boarding school for girls- most wealthy and many titled."

"A school for girls? You are brave!" Coraza raised his water glass to her before drinking.

"Oh, the girls are wonderful- it's the parents that give us the most trouble. Some think their angel _can't_ be failing math while others push the child so hard, the girl just _can't_ measure up." The wind blew her blonde hair awry and she pushed it behind her ear impatiently. "One of our saddest situations is a father who's stopped supporting his daughters, two beautiful young ladies, because the eldest refuses to marry according to his wishes."

"That sounds…" It sounded like something his father would do.

"That sounds terrible, doesn't it? But, he's an example of what I was talking about- he's titled, a Duke from Switzerland- no, that small country on the edge of Switzerland, to the south…Cerneland, that's it! Anyway, we found out this week that he's stopped their tuition payments, even though he's well able to pay. It's apparently due to his displeasure over her disobeying him and his warped sense of what is means to be a father. He actually expects her to agree to an arranged marriage!"

"How old are they?" Coraza nearly held his breath.

"The youngest is seventeen; the oldest is nineteen, almost twenty- she's attending our college for young women sincethe campus is next to us. She refused to be separated from her sister." Elizabeth bit into a forkful of shrimp salad, unaware of the turmoil that was racing through her dinner companion's mind.

It was too much of a coincidence…the young ladies in question had to be his sisters. "What is the name of your school?" he asked casually.

"Covington School."

Coraza laid down his fork. Lucinda and Cassandra. He, of course, had never met or even seen his sisters, but from a distance, he kept up with the young women. He would not hesitate to get involved, the duke and his threats be damned.

"What will happen?"

"The older girl is of legal age, so she is free to come and go. There are scholarships available to the college, though not many are and already awarded for this year. I don't know what she will do. As close as they are, I can't imagine her leaving her sister. The younger girl is still a minor, so we assume her father will come for her." Elizabeth shook her head at the thought. "The girls have family here, but they tread lightly these days. Difficulties between the father and the girls' aunts, I think. Still, they might step in."

"Odd- he hasn't come for them or ordered them to leave?"

"No, but he's very unpredictable." She wiped her mouth. "Depressing talk on such a beautiful October evening! The salad was wonderful. Thank you so much for bringing me here."

"My pleasure. Would you care to walk a while, find a coffee shop?" There was nothing he could about the situation tonight, but tomorrow he would see to it.

"Sounds lovely! There's an art gallery five blocks from here- great stuff!"

"Not modern art, by chance, is it?" he asked, signaling the waiter for the bill.

"Heaven's no! Can't abide modern art- makes no sense at all!"

Coraza liked her even better than before.

* * *

Margaret Addington Howe smiled at the young woman sitting behind the impossibly clean desk. Her own, back at the mansion, had piles of paperwork for the various charities she was involved with. How could a person do any real work at an uncluttered desk? One had to keep the clutter somewhere or else it accumulated in one's brain.

"No, I don't mind waiting. Thank you, dear."

The Covington School and its adjacent college were small, but excellent schools. At least her brother, Morely Addington, had not squabbled about the school's expense. She quietly kept informed about how Morely was supporting Cassandra and Lucinda, and when the school told her that her brother had stopped payment, Margaret was livid.

Three years younger than her seventy-two year old brother, Margaret had learned a thing or two about dealing with him. One had to pick and choose when to fight or to compromise. She and Bettina's family had an understanding with Morely: he allowed them to take the girls during all holidays and school breaksand they, in turn, did not interfere in his concerns. In order to make the girl's lives as normal as possible, they invited her brother to their home on several occasions, but it had done more harm than good.

He'd not stepped foot in her home, or seen the girls, in two years.

Her brother's arranged marriage to Bettina, a lovely young girl at the time, was one Bettina's family soon came to regret. He was older than Bettina by many years, and unfortunately she died before him at a very early age, leaving their two young girls motherless with a louse of a father. Her brother thought that his title, the Duke of Thornfield, allowed him to order Cassandra to marry the son of that squat toad, Baron von Troken.

He was punishing the girls because Cassie refused. Cassie was of legal age, nearly twenty, but Luci was still her father's dependent. Margaret could not love the girls anymore than she did her own son Kent and she was determined that the dear child did _not_ go back to her father.

The young woman at the desk pressed a button on the phone and spoke, barely loud enough for Margaret to hear. "Ma'am, the Duchess of Creshwell is here to see you."

Margaret laughed quietly- she was "Maggie" to everyone and even after forty years of marriage, "'The Duchess" sounded odd to her. She didn't have a snooty bone in her body. She stopped laughing as the secretary continued.

"Also, a Mr. Joseph Coraza is on line two. I will, ma'am." The young woman put the phone down and looked at Margaret. "She will be with you shortly, ma'am."

Joseph Coraza…Morely's son…her nephew.

Margaret looked to Elizabeth Connor's office- the door was half-open. From inside, she could hear the administrator talking, but not clearly enough to follow along. She bit her lip uncertainly then quickly decided.

Casually, but trying not to appear _too_ casual, Margaret went to sit in the chair nearest the door then picked up a magazine lying nearby. Pretending to read, she strained to hear every word and prayed her husband didn't find out about her eavesdropping. If he did, she would never hear the end of it.

"Yes, I'd love to see you before you leave, Joseph! When would you like to meet? Sunday at five would be fine. You choose- some place where we can talk, walk around a bit. The museum café sounds perfect! There's a new exhibit on Vermeer in the loft gallery. I'll see you then!"

Margaret heard footsteps approaching and quickly buried her nose in the magazine, trying to act casual again.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Howe," Elizabeth Connors said. "I'm sorry you had to wait."

"Oh, good afternoon! I didn't hear you- I was so absorbed in this article. Fascinating." She had bluffed her way through worse, particularly while in her own girl's school, Margaret thought proudly. Despite the years, she hadn't lost her touch.

"One of our girls must have left that," Ms. Connors said, laughing, and then joked, "You enjoy the sport?"

"Goodness, yes! Why, my husband and I play it at home all the time," Margaret replied seriously.

Not surprised at anything these days, Elizabeth Connors didn't blink an eye as the gray-haired duchess laid aside the Paintball magazine she'd been reading upside down.

Elizabeth gestured to her office and smiled. "Please, come in, Mrs. Howe."

* * *

Sunday afternoon, Margaret found herself in the café sitting strategically behind a mass of potted palms waiting for her nephew to appear. Fearing Elizabeth Connors might recognize her, she'd worn a huge pair of green sunglasses and a big, flowery hat.

She felt like a spy.

A couple entered the café, but the lady wasn't Ms. Connors and Margaret let her thoughts drift where they may. She wondered if Joseph looked like Morely. She hoped not.

The waiter filled her coffee cup once more and she recalled her conversation with Elizabeth Connors. Someone had already paid the girls' tuition and it wasn't her brother, herself, or Bettina's family. She found the fact that Ms. Connors was seeing Joseph Coraza just when this occurred too much of a coincidence. It had to be him.

She glanced at her watch. Five-fifteen.

Somehow, he found out about the girls. He must have been keeping tabs on them all along, she decided. In turn, it was logical to assume he also knew of her. Should she contact him and offer to repay the girls' tuition? Both she and Bettina's family were more than financially able to see the girls through school without any difficulty, and Covington School was not cheap. He was a colonel in the army, but did it pay that well?

Her brother could be a very vindictive man and she would do nothing to bring his wrath down upon Joseph. If she contacted him and Morely found out, her brother might very well become angry and cause problems for him. Perhaps Morely would simply think she or Bettina's family paid the tuition; she would rather endureher brother's wrath, than Joseph having to.

Perhaps it was best to leave it be for that reason and also because it was the only way Joseph could care for his sisters…even if the girls did not know. Margaret understood the pain of being unable to recognize her own blood. What was it like for him, unacknowledged by the whole family? Margaret shook her head, the silk flowers flopping to and fro, and sighed.

A crowd of people entered the café and through gaps between the palms, Margaret searched for Elizabeth Connor's blonde head- and found it.

Margaret caught her breath. Beside Ms. Connors was a man…Joseph, her nephew.

Bobbing and weaving her head to see through the leaves, she watched as Joseph moved among the café tables. He was tanned and very good-looking, and moved self-assuredly and gracefully despite a very slight limp. He was well dressed, too; Margaret noted the leather jacket as one of Armani's designs. She nodded approvingly. Joseph showed little evidence of being Morely's son.

The couple came closer and closer to her until, to her alarm, they finally stopped at the table directly on the other side of the palms. Ms. Connors recognizing her would be disastrous!

Margaret slumped down, trying to make her less visible behind the menu.

"Does madam wish to order?" a voice droned from above.

Startled, she looked up at the waiter then ordered the first thing she saw. "Yes, please bring me a…a Little Artist Burger."

"Would madam prefer French fries or apple sauce?"

"Fries arefine," she said absently, trying to catch the couple's conversation. In their seats, Joseph- he'd helped Connors with her chair so was a gentleman, too- was discussing his return to Belgium.

"It also comes with milk…and a toy."

"Yes,of course," she replied, dismissing the waiter with a wave of her wrinkled hand. She was missing what her nephew was saying!

"Very good, madam. I'll return with your milk, shortly." The waiter finally took himself off, stopping at Joseph and Connor's table for their order.

While they were distracted by the waiter, Margaret took the opportunity to scoot her chair closer so that she might see and hear better, but cleverly kept the thickest part of the foliage between her and Ms. Connor.

Their order given, Joseph began, again.

* * *

"I'll be advising in the area of risk assessment and security arrangements," he explained. 

"Not out in the field?" Elizabeth asked, surprised.

Joseph grimaced. After the fiasco in Brussels six months earlier, he decided that leading the charge was a job best left to younger men. It had taken over a month for his fractured nose to heal.

Nonetheless, at times he thought of that night and could not help but wonder about the woman he'd held in his arms as she fought him literally tooth and nail. There was no point in his asking her name and he'd never attempted to figure out which royal delegate she was since she was out of his reach.

But no matter how he tried, he found it impossible to forget her.

"For the most part, no."

"But the lesser part…."

"Well, once it's in your blood, it is hard to stay away," he conceded. "I'm sure I'll manage to be involved in a bit of the action now and then."

"How much longer will you be staying in the Army?"

"I'm not certain. I was told I'm being considered for general."

"Wonderful! Congratulations!"

"Thank you, but I don't really want it."

"No?"

He shook his head. "I'm not the office type and I've only stayed in the action by pulling in favors and sheer luck. With a star, I'd never get out from behind the desk."

She tilted her head, considering. "Good chance to make changes, though, a wider area of influence. I didn't think I'd ever like being out of the classroom, but being in an administrative position has its positives…although I must admit I sometimes miss teaching."

"True." He crossed his arms, settling back in the chair. "At any rate, I don't think I'll be selected- I'm not British."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Genovian."

"Oh! Genovia- the place famous for pears? A pretty country, is it?"

"I don't know. I left when I was six or seven and what I recall isn't the scenery." What he recalled was his grandmother's all-consuming grief and worry over his mother's disappearance and the hopeless poverty that pervaded every aspect of their lives.

"Do you still have family there?"

"No."

Her question seemed to have struck a nerve and Elizabeth deftly changed the subject.

"When I retire, and that won't be for a long while, I'd like to write about history- the lesser known rulers and historical events that had a big impact. It's a fascinating area of study. Have you given any thought to what you'll do…if you don't mind my asking?"

He smiled. "No, I don't mind. I'll probably stay in for a few more years, till the thirty-five year mark, and then retire. After that, most likely I will work as a security consultant- it's what I know."

The waiter brought their drinks and Joseph shook his head when offered cream and sugar for his coffee.

"Do you want to travel, or have you had enough of hotels, trains, and planes?" Elizabeth asked, stirring her tea.

He considered. There were places he'd yet to visit- Asia and the United States, in particular. "Yes, I'd like to take a few trips. I have friends in France I want to spend more time with, too."

Micha Tokrov and her husband and son were currently living in Paris and Joseph had visited their home. Her husband was a very decent fellow, and Joseph liked him despite not wanting to. Micha, of course, had invited every unmarried female in Paris, or so it seemed, to stop by during his three days there.

Her husband was the one who had finally persuaded Micha to let Joseph enjoy his visit without having women constantly hanging about. Extremely thoughtful of her husband, Joseph had to admit, given his and Micha's past. But then, Micha and the count's marriage was one of trust and love. It was a stark reminder of what he'd never had.

He later spent a week with the Helmars and could swear Maria scoured northern France for every female Micha missed and invited them over for a breakfast, luncheon, dinner, tea, snack, picnice...any excuse to throw an eligible female at him. Admittedly, Maria was on a crusade to get him married.

Despite her matchmaking, he always enjoyed spending time with the two families- they were the closest thing he had to family of his own.

Marcus' two boys were nearly out of school; one was considering the military, the other considering a career in medicine. Julia, Maria's daughter and his godchild, was nearly fourteen now and showing promise of her mother's great beauty. She called him just a week before to tell him of her dance recital and audition for a local ballet company, and to beg her Uncle Joseph to come for another visit. To entice him, Julia said her mother planned to set him up with another of her single friends.

Giggling, she reminded him not to forget his promise to her. At age ten, Juliadeclared that she had decided to marry _him_ when she was old enough; therefore, he could _not_ marry anyone else.

He assured her she would always have his heart.

The way his life was going, Joseph thought wryly, when she was grown he would still be available.

The waiter returned with their order.

* * *

Too nervous to eat, Margaret picked at the hamburger and fries on the teddy bear-shaped plate before her. She should have gotten the applesauce. Ms. Connor was telling about a childhood adventure in South Africa, so Margaret's mind wandered over what she'd already heard. More than ever, she wished she could meet her nephew. He was, in all respects, a very fine man. 

Pushing the food aside, the toy caught her eye and she looked at it, curious. What on earth was it? There was a foam ring, marked to look like a UFO, and another piece with a lever. Ms. Connor started a new story about her grandmother's run-in with a band of gypsies, so Margaret picked the toy up and put the UFO in the slot. She pulled the lever back…. then let go. The disk whizzed up and over the palms.There was a cry of surprise.

"My word! Where did that come from?"

"The other side of these plants. Probably a child playing with his toy," replied Joseph.

Through the leaves, Margaret saw the UFO sitting squarely in the middle of his plate. She heard his chair slide back. Mortified, she quickly grabbed the menu and hid behind it, leaving nothing showing but her rose-bedecked yellow hat.

"Pardon me, but is this…"

Peering above the menu, Margaret saw Joseph look around for a child. He returned his gaze to her and quickly continued, "…yours?"

The old Addington bravado that had gotten her out of several scrapes, and into even more, kicked in and Margaret lowered the menu and smiled sweetly.

"Why, yes, it is. Thank you, very much. I'm terribly sorry- it works rather well, doesn't it?" she replied, taking the disc as if accepting a priceless relic from the British Treasury.

Her eyes met his and she could not help but stare. Even through her sunglasses, she could tell he had the Addingtons' blue eyes.

He was a handsome rascal.

"Yes, it does- good height, nice, steady flight path," Joseph said, chuckling. He bowed slightly. "Good day, and I hope you enjoy your…flying saucer, ma'am."

He returned to his seat and Margaret's pink face wrinkled in a huge smile. Joseph Coraza was delightful!

As she dropped the toy in her purse, Margaret promised herself that one day before she kicked the bucket, she would meet him openly as family- her fool of a brother be damned.

* * *

Within the study of the ancestral Addington home, an imposing pile of gray stone set at the foot of the Alps in southern Cerneland, the thirteenth Duke of Thornfield drained the last of the whiskey from his glass and waved to his servant for another. The man hurried to take his glass and refill it. 

"Where the devil is Minton?" Addington growled. He snatched the glass from the silver platter and took a big swallow. "I'll fire him if he doesn't get back with that information tonight!"

The servant looked nervously at the duke, then moved away. When his employer became angry, anyone nearby would feel the brunt of it.

The duke stared morosely into his glass watching the liquid swirl as his hand shook.

Someone had dared to cross him.

His two daughters should have been calling home begging for his help and support, the elder girl promising to bend to his wishes. But nothing of the kind had happened. They were still at that school.

Addington wanted to know _who_ had dared to take him on.

There was the sound of a door closing and footsteps in the hallway. Addington looked up as a harried man rushed into the room.

"Your Grace! Please forgive my lateness! There was a matter of-"

"I don't care to hear your excuses!" the duke barked. "I pay you to do a job on time, not show up here behind schedule with feeble explanations!"

"Yes, Your Grace," Minton quickly agreed. He stood awkwardly, unsure what to do.

"Well, get on with it," the duke said impatiently. "What did you find out?"

Minton looked around, not daring to take a seat unbidden yet needing to retrieve papers from his briefcase. He gestured cautiously to a nearby couch. "Sir, might I…?"

"Yes, yes. Sit down and stop wasting my time."

Minton quickly sat and opened his case on his knees. Drawing out a paper, he handed it to the duke before beginning his report.

"The Misses Addington's school tuition was paid in full by an unknown benefactor," the lawyer began hesitantly, watching the duke carefully for any dangerous reaction. The last time Minton delivered bad news,a brandy glass sailed past his head.

"Unknown!" the duke thundered, rising to his feet. "What do you mean unknown?"

"That is, no name is listed as having made payment," Minton explained, then hurried to add, "But, I was able to trace the payment back to the originating bank."

Somewhat mollified, the duke nodded. "All right, that's not much, but better than nothing." He reached for his glass and took another healthy swallow.

"The bank is not one that your sister or the late Mrs. Addington's family uses, but one that caters primarily to military patrons, Your Grace."

Addington nearly choked on his whiskey. The glass flew across the room, this time toward the fireplace, not Minton.

For a full minute, the duke said nothing, but stood, hands clenched into fists, his face contorted in rage. Neither Minton nor the duke's footman dared move. Finally, the duke turned to his lawyer.

"Leave!"

Minton clutched his open briefcase to his chest and scurried away. By the far wall, the footman tried to melt into the paneling.

"Get out!" Addington said. The footman took that to mean him, and fled.

Without bothering to get another glass, Addington took the bottle with him back to his chair.

Coraza! It had to be Coraza.

In the ten years since he met him, the duke had kept apprised of Coraza's career and was surprised the man made it thus far. The colonel was on the list for consideration as general officer.

"Over my dead body," the duke ground out, slamming the bottle on the table beside him. He had plenty of influence and it would only take a couple of calls to high-ranking officials, the right words spoken in threat, to block any promotion.

There was dirt to be found on everyone, if you knew where to dig… and Morely Addington wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

* * *

_Oh my! The duke is one nasty fellow, isn't he?_

_I have a confession- I was so excited writing about Clarisse whupping up on Joseph in the last chapter, I left out about four paragraphs, so had to make up this chapter to work in the information in! A blessing, though, since it allowed me to meet Joseph's slightly addled aunt Margaret. I think there's a bit of me in her...minus the wrinkles, of course!_

_One more chapter to go...._


	7. Chapt 7 age 53

Chapt 7 age 53

"Please tell us, Queen Clarisse," Baroness von Troken sniffed, "what our beloved Crown Prince is doing in preparation for the day he assumes Genovia's throne… may that day, of course, be a long time in coming."

There was an awkward pause at the queen's end of the table before conversations quietly resumed.

"Prince Philippe has been quite busy, of late," Clarisse replied. The baron and baroness made no qualms over their displeasure that the Renaldi side of the family took the throne more than a century ago. Sometimes, she could almost believe they were plotting to get it back.

"Yes, we've heard the Prince has published yet another paper," Baron von Troken added, "in a historical journal."

"I believe that is true," Clarisse answered with a cool smile. She turned to the man at her right, hoping the von Trokens would let the subject drop. "Ambassador, your grandson will be attending the university in Vienna, will he not?"

Before the ambassador could answer, the baron spoke again.

"Your Majesty, I do not understand how these scholarly pursuits of old events will benefit Genovia. Should he not be at his father's side, learning how to govern…_if_ that is actually his intention?"

"I daresay he could learn that just as well at his mother's side," King Rupert declared, his voice carrying from the far end of the table. All discussion ceased as the guests listened with rapt attention. "Queen Clarisse has proven to be adept at looking after the Genovian people, wouldn't you agree, Baron?"

Without taking his eyes off his cousin, Rupert calmly sipped his wine and waited for the baron to answer.

"Yes, Her Majesty has become involved in a number of areas one would not normally expect," the baron answered, choosing his words carefully.

"Queen Clarisse cares very deeply about the Genovian people," Rupert said gravely, a hint of warning in his voice. "I do not think you need concern yourself about the throne, sir. Its succession is secure, as is the future of our people."

No one spoke for several heartbeats.

"Of course," von Troken replied smoothly, picking up his fork. "That is reassuring to us all, Your Majesty."

As their guests returned to chatting amongst themselves, Clarisse and Rupert exchanged glances. She was not amused, but Rupert's eyes fairly danced. There had always been something of a rivalry between him and his cousins, even as youths. For Rupert, tall, handsome, and athletic, coming out on top came easily. It was not the same for von Troken.

Although the dinner continued without further unpleasantness, Clarisse was uneasy. The Baron struck a nerve and it galled her that he was, in some ways, correct.

Philippe showed little interest in the throne.

He attended ceremonies when requested, made all the proper appearances, of course, but that was the whole of it. He preferred spending his time conducting research in libraries throughout Europe. Once, he confided to her that he would like to have been a professor, teaching at a university.

Clarisse had been at a loss as what to say.

Putting one's own interests first was absolutely foreign to her. In all her life, she'd never done so. The welfare of the people was her prime concern.

In other countries that still retained a monarchy, the sovereign often occupied little more than a ceremonial position. Although Parliament enacted laws and made decisions that affected the country's welfare, in Genovia the crown was the primary source of guidance and action on the country's behalf. It was not a responsibility to take lightly or without preparation.

They would have to speak with Philippe.

* * *

"Rupert, I think this matter of logging occurring in our northern province warrants our close attention." Clarisse turned a page in the folder as she ate her salad, her eyes skimming the report. She shook her head.

"Gustav threatened pecuniary penalties against the Duke of Thornfield about this very thing in Cerneland and Addington backed down," she added. Clarisse took off her reading glasses and looked across the table at her husband. It was a rare day they were able to have lunch together. "What do you think?"

The king gave up picking at his food. Frowning, he leaned back in his chair.

"Rupert?"

"Um, yes, of course, my dear." Rupert closed his eyes then opened them and shifted in his seat. "You were saying…?"

Clarisse reached for the crystal saltshaker then stopped, noticing the sheen of sweat on his face, the pallor that had come over him. She pushed her chair back and got up, hurrying around the table.

"Rupert, are you ill?" She laid a hand on his skin. It was cool- too cool.

"Perhaps something…isn't agreeing….with me." His breath was short and he seemed to be struggling to breathe.

Clarisse quickly caught the attention of a footman. "Call for medical assistance- _quickly_!"

* * *

"It is his heart," the doctor informed almost two hours later.

Clarisse shook her head. "His heart? Rupert has never had any heart problems."

The doctor hesitated, forcing himself to meet the queen's gaze. His words were slow and deliberate. "I am afraid he has, Your Majesty"

"My husband never mentioned this! When?" It made no sense. Rupert was one of the most active, vigorous men she knew.

"His Majesty began having chest pains several months ago, on a trip to Vienna. Upon his return, he consulted me and I discovered that he'd had a mild heart attack." The doctor continued apologetically. "He forbade my telling you."

Clarisse took a deep breath. A dozen concerns, worries, and fears flew through her thoughts. She forced herself to speak calmly. "How is he now?"

"Resting, doing well. We'd like to do more tests, try a change of medication, but if His Majesty has no further problems, he should be able to return home in several days."

"May I see him?"

"Yes, of course. I'll take you to him now, if you'd like."

Clarisse sat quietly by Rupert's bedside, the doctor allowing her a moment alone with her husband. She touched his hand. It still felt cool.

"My dear," Rupert said, opening his eyes. He wrapped his fingers around hers and smiled. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, Rissa."

"Don't talk- you should rest."

"I'm not dead, yet!" Rupert laughed weakly. He saw the apprehension in her eyes and squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry, my dear. A poor joke. Actually, other than being very tired, I feel much better than before."

"I was so frightened. I…I don't know what I'd do without you," she said, her voice trembling.

He tugged at her hand. "Come here, Rissa."

"Are you certain?"

"Will do me good," he said, patting the space beside where he lay, partially upright in his bed.

Unsure, Clarisse gently sat down, placing a hand on his shoulder, the other on his chest. The steady thumping of his heart under her hand was reassuring.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to worry."

"I'm your wife and I care about you, Rupert. I'm supposed to worry."

He chuckled. "I'm sorry, my dear. I guess I should have told you."

"Yes, you should have."

Rupert smiled at the familiar flash in her eyes. "You have been such a treasure. I've enjoyed every day of our thirty-three years together."

"You're not dead, yet, Rupert!" she snapped. Rupert bit his lip trying not to laugh, but failed. Clarisse rolled her eyes.

"No, I'm _not_, my dear," he replied more firmly. "As soon as they will let me, I will be back at home with you."

"You must not over do it," she cautioned. She gave him a knowing look. "_Cooperate_ with the doctors and nurses, and you might get there sooner, than later."

"I will, I promise." He became serious. "My dear, there's something I've wanted to say to you…and should have before now."

Clarisse said nothing, wondering what it was. Rupert took a deep breath, his gaze meeting hers.

"You are no doubt aware that I have, in the past…..not been faithful to our vows."

She made to speak, but he stopped her.

"Our situation is different from most, but that was no excuse," he continued, his voice strong and firm. He took her hand in his. "I should have discussed…things with you, perhaps tried to work it all out, instead. I am sorry, my dear Rissa. Please know that you have always been the one nearest to my heart. Will you forgive me?"

"Of course, darling. We both ignored the situation." Clarisse looked down at her hand in his. "I always knew you cared. There was never any doubt."

"Might we start anew? I think we should take a vacation," Rupert replied. "A real one- no work…just relax. How does a week by the ocean sound?"

"I'd like that and the ocean sounds wonderful."

"Good," Rupert replied, smiling. He watched her for a moment. "You must take care of yourself, Rissa. Until I can resume my responsibilities, do not take on too much. Have Philippe help."

She kissed him and stood, still holding his hand. "He's on his way back from Berlin. I'll speak with him tonight. _You_ get some rest."

* * *

It was not until four days later, when they were certain Rupert was out of danger, that she spoke with Philippe. He agreed to help in any way he could, but she could see the reluctance in his manner, could hear it in his voice.

"Philippe, please be honest with me. Do you not want the throne?" she asked gently, sitting down beside him.

He looked away. "It isn't that I don't care about you or father or Genovia."

Clarisse's heart sank.

"I know what my responsibilities are and that I should have been preparing for them before now. I suppose I've been rather selfish, haven't I?" he continued, looking intently at his mother. "At any rate, there really isn't a choice about it."

"It may seem, sometimes, that we do not have a choice, Philippe, but few things are truly beyond our choosing." She laid her hand on his arm.

"You had no choice, Mother." There was neither accusation nor censure in his voice; it was simply a statement of fact.

"On the surface it appears not, but had I refused, the truth is there was nothing anyone could have done to force me into marrying your father," Clarisse answered thoughtfully. "It would have caused many difficulties and a great deal of disappointment, but, in the end, there _was_ a decision for me to make."

"Turn your back on Genovia or marry the crown prince?" Philippe laughed skeptically. He shook his head. "That didn't leave you many options, Mother."

"Neither does choosing whether or not to be king," she replied quietly.

Philippe was silent for a while and turned his head away. "No, it doesn't."

"There will be many times in your life that you must choose. Some decisions will be easy, others hard." Clarisse touched his cheek. "You can only do your best, darling."

Philippe nodded. "I will consider it."

Clarisse said nothing more, but left him to his thoughts. It was all she could expect.

* * *

"I cannot tell you how sorry about this, Joseph." General Hubert Olson shook his head. "If I weren't retired….It's just not right! You earned it, by God!"

The news of his not making the rank of general did not surprise Coraza in the least or disappoint him. "I appreciate your efforts, sir."

The general huffed. "S_omeone_ objected and the brass won't press it, despite my demands. I can't imagine _who_ would do that or even why."

Calmly sipping his drink, Coraza considered. He knew who would block his promotion- his father. Had the duke found out he was paying his sisters' tuition these past three years? Not that he cared, particularly. He would rather his father know he paid it, than have the duke cause problems for anyone else.

"Sir, I have no regrets about my career. It's been more than enough excitement for one lifetime."

Thirty-five years of being a soldier, responding to crises, running after terrorists all over Europe had taken its toll…and the last six months in North Africa...

Coraza took a deep breath. The past half year seemed worse than all previous assignments. Sent to assess the embassy compound's security arrangements, he arrived three hours after the blast. The taste of powdery dirt was still fresh, as was the burn of heat radiating from the charred building and the reek of death.

After exhaustive months of sifting through debris, greasing the palms of informers, and chasing one false lead after another, he'd found the perpetrators hiding in another country whose leader flatly refused to give them up. It was all he could do…but it wasn't enough. He'd failed.

"That it has, my friend," the general answered gently, reading the emotions on the younger man's face. "That it has."

General Olson sat quietly, waiting for the other to speak.

"It's time I got out," Coraza said simply.

Olson nodded. "The world is yours, Joseph."

"I'm not certain the picture is that rosy."

"You're young yet; have years ahead to do whatever _you_ decide," Olson said, waving his cigar in a large, sweeping gesture. "Settle down, have children- no, you are not too old!"

"I don't know about children." Coraza shook his head. "At any rate, I won't be doing anything for the next while. I'm having my knee fixed- finally," Coraza said, laying his hand on his right knee. "Can't avoid it any longer."

"Let Mary and me know when- she'll keep you in soup and muffins during your recovery." The general reached for his cane.

"Thank you, I will, sir." Mary Olson was a good cook. He moved to assist the general who was standing unsteadily. The general waved him away.

"I'm not so old I can't stand on my own two feet…eventually," he protested, straightening slowly. He put out his hand and Coraza took it. "Take care, Joseph."

After the general left, Coraza sat, staring out the large window at the cold rain. There was a chance of ice later; he should leave before the roads got bad.

Still, he waited, thinking. In six months, he would retire… what then?

Nothing came to mind.

In all honesty, he was tired of the game.

* * *

"No, I left Interpol almost a year ago- just didn't want to stay in any longer. The hours got to be too much, you know," Johansson explained. The former agent across from Coraza took the last bite of prime rib and relaxed in his seat. "Found something a bit quieter to do, after that little adventure in Strasburg. Temporary position, though. You retire in, what, two months? Have any plans?"

"I'm not certain- perhaps take time to relax, let my knee heal further…settle down."

"Settle down?" Johansson's eyebrows rose. "Are congratulations in order?"

"No," Joseph replied, quickly. Thoughts of Lauren and the past few months came to mind. They were the happiest he could recall…but marriage? He shook his head. Their relationship was perfect as it was. "No plans to marry."

"Do you plan to stay here…find a quiet farm out in the country?" Johansson joked.

"Actually, that doesn't sound too bad," Coraza mused. "Raise horses, do some fishing…"

"Fishing! You'd be bored in a week's time!"

"You're most likely correct," Coraza conceded with a grin. He tilted his head to the side, suddenly somber. "Still, a little peace and quiet doesn't sound bad at all."

Johansson studied the colonel and an idea came to mind. Coraza was a skilled fighter and capable leader as well as one of Europe's best security experts. The chances were slim, but it was worth a shot.

But, what was the best way to approach this, Johansson wondered.

"Colonel, I have something I'd for like you to consider, if you would." he began slowly. "I retire in four months and I can't leave my position to just anyone. There are…challenges to be met."

"Challenges?"

"Yes, procedures and technology to update, a new staff to put together, training to be done…that sort of thing."

"What is it you do?" Coraza asked, curious.

"I'm in charge of security for the Genovian royal family," Johansson answered, watching interest spark in the colonel's eyes. He sat back, satisfied. He'd found his man in Joseph Coraza.

* * *

"….So, I've decided to leave," Lauren said, running her hand along his arm, her fingers lightly tracing the contours of his muscles.

Coraza sat up quickly from where he'd been lying on the blanket. As usual, they were enjoying Sunday afternoon with a picnic in a secluded area of a park outside of London. "You're leaving?"

"Yes, next week. I've accepted a position at a university library in Florida. I'm going home."

Bored from inactivity after his surgery, he'd clumsily bumped her with his crutches while in a bookstore searching for a book to read. Not only did he find a book, but he also found Lauren Quinn. She was witty and intelligent and her company filled his long recovery period with pleasure. He didn't want it to end.

Coraza took her hand. "I had hoped you would stay- with me."

She didn't answer.

"Lauren, I care for you deeply… like none other."

"My dearest Joseph," she replied softly. "We care about each other, but not that way."

He started to disagree.

Lauren placed her finger lightly on his lips and smiled sadly. "We do not love each other."

Coraza looked away. "We could be happy. We can travel- go anywhere you wish-"

"Joseph, we want different things from life."

He knew it was true. She was seventeen years younger and wanted marriage and a family, soccer practices and scouts- all the other mundane activities mothers were involved in on a day in and day out basis. He, on the other hand, would feel trapped in such a life. Still…

"I would try- for you."

She shook her head. He would, she knew, without a word of complaint, but he'd not be happy and would stay out of a sense of duty and responsibility. They would both be miserable with that knowledge.

She laid her hand gently on his cheek and turned his face to hers. She touched her lips gently to his. "I'm sorry."

Joseph nodded.

"Still friends?"

"Of course. Always." After a long moment, Joseph took a deep breath and lifted her hand to kiss it, then held it tightly between his. "So tell me, Miss Quinn, what I can do to help you…prepare for your trip."

Lauren placed her hands on his shoulders, her smile widening to a grin as she pushed him down to the blanket, on his back. "Well, Colonel Coraza, now that you mention it…."

Joseph circled his arms around her, pulling her close, wishing with all his heart that he loved her. He was going to miss her terribly.

* * *

Colonel Coraza rinsed his face clean of the thick, white foam and surveyed his work. He ran a thumb across his jaw and chin, checking. His retirement ceremony and luncheon with several fellow officers was in two hours and he couldn't very well show up in the goatee he'd become used to while working with Interpol. Forced to shave it upon his return to England, he'd grown it back during his convalescent leave. He would again, he decided, and keep the earring, at that.

Lauren had liked it- she teased him, saying it made him look mysterious. At the thought of her, his hand stilled momentarily before continuing across his cheek. She'd been gone for almost three weeks now.

After drying his face and hands, he tossed the towel over the rack and, for the last time, donned his uniform, automatically checking to make sure his rank and medals for proper placement. He looped his tie around, again, and under, then adjusted the knot.

Lauren was right; he did not love her. He cared for her and enjoyed every moment of the past four months with her. He would have even considered marrying her, had she insisted, but she needed someone to give her a family and the life she wanted.

She was young and deserved nothing less than love. He, however, would have settled for just friendship.

Shrugging his jacket on, he wondered if he would ever truly love anyone. He was nearly fifty-three years old and many of his peers were grandparents already.

He doubted he would marry- if he had not found her by now, she must not exist.

More immediate was the need for a decision about his future. Numerous acquaintances across Europe, and a few elsewhere, wanted him to work for them either on a consulting basis or as an employee. While the positions were generous, he wasn't sure.

He needed time to simply rest.

Marcus invited him to visit and he was looking forward to the following week with his friends. At his request, Maria promised not to throw any women at him. He knew, however, he would have to explain his insistence to her- Maria didn't miss a thing.

True to his word, Johansson sent him particulars about the position in Genovia he'd mentioned two months prior. Coraza had looked it over, found it mildly interesting, and put it aside, deciding he did not want to leave England just yet. A week after Lauren left, he found himself needing a complete change of location, so pulled it from his briefcase and faxed his resume, requesting a visit to learn more. Johansson assured him that the job was his, should Coraza choose to apply. His visit to Genovia was in a week's time, after his holiday with the Helmars.

Coraza picked up his hat and glanced around the small quarters. His career, entire his life, everything he owned was contained in the four footlockers and two suitcases stacked neatly against the far wall, ready.

It was a new start, a new life… alone. He flipped the light switch off and shut the door behind him.

He was used to being alone and it did not matter, he told himself.

But deep inside, he knew it did.

_

* * *

Well, seems I keep saying there's only one more chapter then I up and write just one more! The next **will** be the last, when they finally meet face to face. After that comes their story._

_Thanks very much for your reviews! It really does make writing more fun when others enjoy reading my work as much as I enjoy writing it. Feel free to offer constructive criticism, too._

_I know this chapter was rather dull, but it sets up scenes later, so was necessary…details matter._


	8. Chapter 8 age 53

Chapter 8 age 53

Victor Johansson watched the small commuter jet taxi toward the terminal with a satisfied smile on his face. After sending Joseph Coraza information about the position, he waited, hoping to hear from the colonel. When three weeks went by, he was beginning to worry, and after six, he had about given up hope. Then, one morning the package came with Coraza's resume and request for a visit. Johansson had not stopped smiling since.

It was nothing short of a miracle that he was even interested.

Joseph Coraza was, if anything, over qualified for the job. He had his choice of positions and could make twice the money consulting for half the time and both of them realized it. Johansson tried to make sure King Rupert and the Royal Officer of Personnel were aware of that fact, too.

He kept in mind that Coraza did not apply for the job and that this interview was for Joseph's benefit, and not for the Crown. It was Coraza's decision if he took the job.

Even if there were other, more well paying opportunities for Joseph, Victor thought his friend was perfect for the position. Johansson did not want to leave Genovia andthe royal familyin the hands of just anyone, and he trusted Joseph completely.

The jet taxied to a stop and Johansson pushed through the double doors to the tarmac, nodding at George the security guard who awoke when his ear protectors could no longer muffle the exhaust as the plane neared.

"Mornin' Mr. Johansson," George yawned, settling back his chair back against the concrete wall when he saw it was only an arrival that had disturbed him.

"Good morning, George."

"You meetin' a diplomat or some such?"

"No, possibly my replacement," Johansson answered, eyeing Genovia's drowsy first line of defense against any undesirables that might be on the plane.

George scratched his day's growth of beard and nodded absently. "Heard you were retirin'."

"Yes. Say, George, would you mind doing me a favor?" Johansson asked, seeing the man's eyes closing. He heard the jet's door opening and the stairs rolling into place. "Mind looking over the man I'm meeting and giving me your first impression of Colonel Coraza?"

George considered the request, weighing the inconvenience of staying awake against his lack of curiosity. Mr. Johansson was a good man, though, so George decided he'd make up for lost sleep during the cargo inspection. He nodded and let his chair fall forward to rest on all four legs. "Guess I can do that."

"Thanks, George."

Johansson turned his attention to the passengers disembarking and saw Coraza nearing the bottom of the stairs. He stepped forward.

"Welcome to Genovia, Colonel!" Johansson said, shaking his hand and reaching for the colonel's carry-on.

"Thank you," Coraza replied. "I'm officially retired now- it's _Mr._ Coraza or Joseph from now on."

"As you wish and congratulations upon your retirement," Johansson replied. He gestured toward the side of the terminal. "Our car is over here. I thought we'd see something of the town and have lunch before visiting the palace."

George sat up straight and with his good eye peered hard at the stranger, not wanting to miss a thing.

Coraza frowned as the odd, rumpled man wearing what appeared to be part of an official uniform sat forward in the chair and stared at him, eye narrowed, until he and Johansson had passed.

"Ah… don't worry about him," Johansson said lightly, wondering if he should have simply let George go back to sleep. "He's harmless."

"Who is he?" Coraza asked.

"Airport Security," Johansson replied, opening the passenger door for Coraza then placing the bag and briefcase on the backseat.

Before getting in, Coraza took a quick look over his shoulder toward Genovia's finest and found the man reclining against the wall, hat over his face. Coraza took a deep breath; this was not what he expected at all.

* * *

"I know what you're thinking, Joseph." 

Coraza smiled and shook his head. "Victor, I doubt it."

Johansson laughed. "Remember I was the one who said there were challenges along with this job."

Coraza nodded then ate another spoonful of the thick, tasty stew. The food in Genovia was proving to be delicious. Must be the mix of cultures, he decided.

"I meant it."

Coraza took a swallow of dark German beer and helped himself to another piece of bread. Perhaps it was the cool, fresh air from the mountains that made him feel hungry.

Then again, maybe it was because he'd skipped breakfast that morning at the Helmar manor and didn't have time to grab something at the Paris terminal. Julia insisted on driving him to the airport in her new Mini and managed to get lost until he directed her back to the opposite side of the city where the airport was located.

He barely made the flight, with Julia's repeated and heartfelt pleas for forgiveness still fresh in his mind. His godchild was not only stunning in looks, but persuasively charming as well. He'd have fun teasing her about the incident in the future.

"I won't lie to you and say that the security situation here is ideal. But, I will tell you that you'll not be bored and that there isn't a more beautiful place to work in all of Europe."

"That is a consideration," Coraza said, trying hard to be positive.

"Security for the royal family needs to be overhauled- new technology, new ways of doing things. My position here is temporary- I don't even have the time to get started any changes- I've just tried to keep everything under control and running. It will take someone committed to the project from beginning to end."

He paused, wondering just how much he should tell Joseph and how much to let him find out on his own that afternoon. Honesty, however, impelled him to add, "It won't be the easiest of tasks."

"Why not? Is there not a concern?"

Johansson did not answer immediately, but called the waiter over for two more beers. The more relaxed Joseph was when he saw the Royal Security Force, the better.

He'd chosen the outdoor café sitting on the edge of the White River because it offered a spectacular view of the river, park, and mountains beyond. The food was excellent, the service casual and friendly, and the beer cold. A good impression of Genovia, George not withstanding, was essential to his plan.

"Genovia," he finally began, crossing his arms on his chest, "is an old country steeped in tradition. Change, when it comes, tends to be gradual. This gives our country a unique charm not found elsewhere in Europe, where traditions have become blurred in light of progress."

Coraza leaned back in his chair with the fresh beer and another roll, and looked at Johansson with something akin to pity.

Johansson sighed. He could not pull anything over on Coraza…nor did he really want to.

"Alright, it's like this. If you take this job, you will have to fight for _every_ change and _every_ improvement you make. Few will be happy, many will complain. You will have to persuade everyone, from the lowest footman to the king himself, why a change is necessary. You will very likely be the _only_ one who understands the concept you are trying to get across."

Coraza said nothing, but looked across the river to the park.

"I don't want you to think Genovia is mired hopelessly in the past. It isn't. Their Majesties have worked tirelessly to better the country. Queen Clarisse, in particular, is passionate about improving healthcare, education, and technological services to the people. There is, however, a great deal of room for improvement."

All the cards are on the table, Johansson thought. Coraza will either fold or take up the challenge.

"I was offered a vice-presidency at CommWorld Security," Coraza said quietly, more to himself than to Victor. He turned his gaze to the old, ornate buildings that lined the other side of the narrow street.

"I'm not surprised," Johansson replied. The company was the foremost security firm in Europe.

"What is the budget and staffing like?"

Johansson sucked in his breath like a man going down for the final count. "Well, our budget is not a high priority and as for staffing… I have to call upon the local constabulary regularly to provide even minimal coverage."

"_Not_ Airport Security?" Coraza asked, turning back to Johansson.

It nearly killed him to do so, but Johansson nodded. It was, he thought, surely the nail in the coffin. "Yes, at times."

When Coraza did not reply, Johansson signaled for the bill.

"Would you care to visit the palace now?" Johansson asked. He might as well finish giving the tour, for all the good it would do. He began thinking of a list of other men for the post. None came close to the colonel.

"Yes, of course," Coraza replied politely.

* * *

With great interest, Joseph Coraza saw his homeland for the first time in over forty years. He felt, however, no great sense of homecoming. How could he? He'd been barely eight when he and his grandmother left, going to Spain in search of his mother. They did not find her with relatives as his grandmother hoped; he later discovered she'd died years before. He'd never been back to Genovia or thought of returning. 

In all his years working with Interpol and the army, he never had reason to come here. It was a quiet country, so to speak, with little political or social problems, due, in part, he would guess, to the personal interest the king and queen took in the welfare of the people.

People, he noticed, were much more willing to endure difficulties if they knew those above them cared and were working toward a solution. He saw it in action numerous times with his own men and apparently the king and queen enjoyed the support of their subjects. From what Johansson said, and Coraza saw on the drive to the palace, the sovereigns were forward thinkers; it was just taking the country a while to catch up.

While he knew basic information about the royal family, he had not gone out of his way to discover more. On the plane, he'd glanced at the tourist brochure. Its slightly out of focus back cover showed a portrait of the current king and queen- the typical oil painting. The king, dark-haired with refined features, appeared noble and dignified; the bejeweled queen, her long hair made into an ornate, out of date style, was young and elegant. Dressed in formal wear, both wore crowns and robes of office.

Genovia was a beautiful country, just as Victor said. Blue waters of the Mediterranean lapped at a rich land, perfect for agriculture. Nearby in the west and much further to the north, the green plains and hills gave way to the Alps and its wonderland of peaks and valleys blessed with snow and tourists the majority of the year. The air was cool and clean, he'd rarely seen the sky so blue and without the haze of pollution.

Still, he was mindful of the fact that there was more to a job than the location. While he never shirked a challenge in the line of duty, Coraza did not go seeking them out simply for the sake of testing himself. Overhauling a substandard organization was not how he preferred to spend his retirement.

But, despite the serious doubts about the job, he would see the day through for the sake of his friendship with Victor.

"How do you communicate with each other?" Coraza asked as they walked unhurriedly down the hall that led to the 'official' side of the palace.

Earlier, Johansson showed him the security room. It was a former storage area that still conveniently housed the palace supply of toilet paper and cleaning products. In addition, it boasted an older model computer with dial up Internet access, three phone lines- one down at the moment, a metal gun cabinet that held three rifles and a flak vest, and a couch that had seen its better days many years ago.

The coffee pot, however, was new.

One at the front door, the other at the back, he met two agents of the agents on duty; both were within two years of retiring. Victor did not introduce him to any others; Coraza wondered where they were.

"Telephone- we have wireless here in the capitol and coverage will be expanding nationwide over the course of the coming eighteen months. It is not ideal for use during official functions, but serves, for the most part, adequately."

Johansson laughed. He had nothing to hide, now. He was certain Coraza would not seriously consider the position; whatever had possessed him to offer it? "Normally, when there's a message to deliver, we simply track each other down on foot."

"What coverage do you provide?"

"At present, we provide a guard for the king when he leaves the palace and recently we've begun providing the same for the queen. The grounds require a guard at the gate, front and back doors, and someone to make rounds periodically. This is in addition to the agent accompanying Their Majesties. We also manage security concerns for visiting royals or heads of state." Johansson stopped at a doorway and faced Coraza. He took a deep breath. "To do all this, we have five men."

_"Five?"_ This was far worse than he thought.

"Yes, six, including myself. I'm sure you see why it is necessary to use outside manning." He began walking again. "You know, in a way, I'm actually rather proud of how much we've managed to do with so little resources. Here, let me show you the throne room."

Coraza said nothing. He would decline the position.

* * *

"Something's come up- there's a pressing matter of security for the minister from Switzerland's visit tomorrow, and I have to see to, Joseph. I am sorry." Victor led the way from the ballroom to an anteroom nearby. 

"No need to apologize," Coraza replied, "I understand."

"Thank you. I trust you'll be comfortable here- this shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes- just a couple of phone calls," Johansson explained then left, leaving Joseph by himself.

Coraza did not mind; he welcomed a moment to gather his thoughts.It had been a day of surprises and, he had to admit, disappointments. He'd almost felt at home here, in Genovia.Now he would have to give serious consideration to the offers in Paris and London, or even Brussels. But, that could wait until later. He looked around the room.

Filled with sunshine, it overlooked the garden and had the feel of outdoors to it. Antique Botanical prints and porcelain flowers lent bright spots of color to the cream and yellow décor. Ferns basked by the windows.

Throughout the royal residence, fresh flowers, tasteful art- not modern, he noted- and fine furniture gave the palace an understated elegance. It was something he rarely saw in the old buildings of Europe. Most were decorated and gilded to excess. He found the palace had a comfortable feel about it.

In the garden, hundreds of roses were in full bloom and the sight drew him to the window. Not one normally to care about gardens and plants, he nevertheless found himself wanting to take a stroll along its paths. The fragrance among the blooms must be heavenly.

He turned quickly as a door opened.

"I'm sorry," the woman said, coming into the room. Her voice carried a light, English accent. She glanced around. "I was looking for one of the aides."

"I am waiting for Mr. Johansson," Coraza explained, trying not to stare at the woman. She was lovely. "While enjoying the view of the garden."

The woman smiled and walked to where he stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back.

"Yes, it is beautiful this time of the year," she replied, satisfaction infusing her words. "It took a great deal of work to make it so."

Coraza cast a quick glance at her as she admired the blossoms ofred, pink, yellow, white, and all shades in between. About his own age, a couple of inches shorter than he, her hair was fair and cut in a short, feminine style. Her features delicate, she needed little makeup to enhance her beauty.

He wondered who she was. Dressed in a conservative skirt and jacket, she wore low heels, and little jewelry.

One of the staff, he decided, perhaps the queen's own secretary.

"I imagine it also took a great deal of planning," he said, turning his attention back to the garden. The thought of staying in Genovia suddenly held significantly more appeal than five minutes earlier. "The colors blend well. It would make for a restful place to walk."

The woman blushed prettily. "Thank you. I designed it and think the garden very peaceful, particularly in the evening."

"An artist in flowers," he said softly, turning his gaze back to her.

Her blush deepened and she looked away, her lips curving in a delighted smile.

She was the landscape designer, Coraza thought, pleased. There was an invitation for him to stay the night in Genovia, should he wish to get to know the country better. Perhaps he would take Victor up on the offer.

He wondered if the woman was free for dinner. He would ask.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment until, searching for a way to continue the conversation; he noticed an electronic device and a battery in her hand.

"Are you having difficulty?" Coraza asked, nodding to them.

She laughed. "I'm afraid I'm better at flowers than modern devices. I'm simply no good at these things."

"Might I help?" he offered, holding out his hand, stepping closer. He was so close he could smell her perfume, a light floral scent. She gave him the gadget and he deftly removed the cover and slipped the battery in the slot, pressing to seat it.

"Thank you," she said, embarrassed at how simple the problem had been. "I was told it would make keeping track of appointments easier, however I think a diary would be less trouble."

"I would be pleased to show you how to use it and hear more about your plans for the garden," he said, sliding the back cover in place. He hoped she would take him up on his offer. He held the Palm Pilot out to her and she reached for it. "Perhaps tonight we could meet and have-"

Their hands touched, resting on each other, and she quickly lifted her gaze to his. For a long moment, neither of them moved or breathed.

He could not look away... he did not want to.

Her eyes were soft brown, her skin delicate like that of a perfect rose, her lips appealing. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her and it was all Coraza could do not to reach for her.

He let his hand drop to his side, lest he did just that.

His only option now, he knew without a doubt, was to stay in Genovia.

* * *

The touch of his hand unsettled her nearly as much as the blue of his eyes. She stared, unable to speak, her thoughts racing.

Who was he?

Normally, she would have _never_ stayed in the room talking with a stranger, but there was something about him that kept her from leaving, something that made her want to stay. She felt she knew him, yet she was certain she'd never met him before.

Tanned, or perhaps dark complexioned, he was handsome. He wore a beard- no, was it called a goatee? - and a small, gold earring in his left ear. A bit taller than she, he stood straight, almost as if at attention. His clothes fit him well, a black suit, gray shirt, and patterned sapphiretie, all of a superior make.

Still, it was his eyes that were most remarkable. In them, she thought she could see flecks of green…and even gold.

The air became thicker and she drew a breath, an unfamiliar sensation in her chest.

"Terribly sorry about that!" Victor called, bursting into the room, closely followed by King Rupert. "Oh, I see you have already met."

She quickly stepped back, as did the man.

"I'm afraid I've been remiss in my manners," she managed to say, shaking her head slightly.

Victor smiled broadly. "King Rupert, Queen Clarisse, I'm pleased to present Mr. Joseph Coraza."

She saw emotions cross the man's face- shock…dismay?

"Ah, yes! You're here about the security position- splendid!" Rupert said, coming to stand by his wife. "Retired recently from the British Army, did you not? Congratulations, Colonel. An impressive career, I've been told."

Clarisse listened as the men talked, her hand on her chest. Her heart was pounding.

_What was wrong with her?_

"…won't we, my dear?" Rupert said. Everyone was waiting for her answer.

Clarisse looked at her husband, at a loss. "I'm sorry, I didn't…"

"I said we will be pleased if Mr. Coraza accepts the position, won't we?"

"Yes…yes, of course." Clarisse looked back to Coraza and found him watching her, his features expressionless. Her heartbeat began to quicken once more and she blurted the first thing that came to mind. "You have worked as a security guard before?"

The corner of his mouth lifted a fraction. "No, not per se, Your Majesty, but I've some knowledge in that area."

Johansson chuckled at Joseph's unassuming description of his career. "Mr. Coraza is one of Europe's foremost experts on security matters, Your Majesty. I would even go far as to say he's the best there is."

The door opened and a man stepped inside and stood quietly, waiting. King Rupert glanced his way and nodded.

"Must run- Parliament will be convening soon. Thank you for coming to Genovia, Colonel." Rupert turned to leave. "If there's anything the palace can do to help in your decision, please don't hesitate to tell Victor."

With Rupert gone, the two men faced her. It would be rude of them simply to leave.

Clarisse forced herself to smile normally. She hesitated in offering her hand, then told herself not to be silly. She was merely…. nervous, caught off-guard.

"Thank you for the kind observations about my garden," she said, giving him her hand. "It was a pleasure, Mr. Coraza."

He gently took it and lifted her hand to his lips.

The odd feeling in her chest came back and she felt his breath on her fingers, warm and soft.

"Joseph, Your Majesty. Please call me Joseph."

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed Different Worlds. _

_Worlds Apart is next._

_Thanks for your kind reviews!_

_Luc_


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